Bond Of Brotherhood
by Clowns or Midgets
Summary: Separated from his brother at age sixteen, Dean makes a new life for himself. When finally reunited with Sam, he finds they're living in different worlds. How can they rebuild what they once had when demons, both literal and personal, attack from all sides? Part 1 of the Brotherhood series
1. Prologue

**Much thanks to Jenjoremy for signing up to work on another story with me. She beta's, she improves and she makes it all flow. **

**Welcome to my new story. This is something different for me. For one, I'm writing weechesters for the first couple chapters, and for another… Well, I'll let you read and see. Suffice to say it's been a challenge. **

**The original idea for this story came from a prompt roguishfeathers left on the **_**Oh Sam**_** comment meme. I can't find the original prompt — and it would give too much away about the plot anyway — but with a few additions and subtractions to her idea, this story was born. Thank you roguishfeathers for letting me run with it. **

**I'll stop blathering now and let you read.**

* * *

_**Prologue**_

Ellen was wiping down the bar, swiping nut shells to the floor and mopping up spilled beer, when she heard the rumble of a car coming along the track.

"Keep on driving," she muttered.

It was past midnight, and she'd only just managed to kick the last of the ornery patrons out the door. She didn't want some hunter stitching himself up on one of her clean tables, using the good liquor to sterilize and anesthetize, because he was too much of a damn fool to take himself to the ER after a hunt gone sour. It had happened before too many times to count. She wanted to finish her chores and go to bed so she could be halfway human when Jo woke her up at the crack of dawn, ready for a brand new day.

The rumble got closer and Ellen paused in her mopping to listen. There was something familiar about the sound, something that danced on the edges of her mind, teasing her. It came to her in a rush of understanding and anger. She knew that sound, that distinctive engine, and she knew the owner: John goddamn Winchester.

Before she knew it, she was behind the bar, grabbing the shotgun she kept in a spring clip there for any fool who was dumb enough to make trouble in her bar. She had shot it a dozen times, but never at a person. Was this the night that would change? She was a good shot. Bill had made sure of that. He'd had her training with guns even before they were married, determined that she would always be able to take care of herself. She was able. It was him that couldn't. He had been the one who had gotten himself gutted by some fugly because he was stupid enough to team up with John Winchester.

She didn't want to kill him, she didn't want to make two boys orphans, but the anger… it was so intense.

It had been less than a year since Bill took his last breath and Jo had just about stopped asking when he was going to come back. Maybe in time Ellen could think of John Winchester and not want to pull the trigger, but not yet. She took a deep breath and held it, summoning calm and thoughts of the boys. They didn't deserve Jo's fate—life without a father.

She found calm, but she didn't loosen her grip on the gun. She owed John a lot, least of all a damn good scare. He could look down the barrel and know how Bill had felt facing death.

He didn't knock on the door, he hammered, and she cursed him. If he woke Jo, she would pull the trigger and shoot him in the foot.

She took another deep breath to calm herself then drew back the bolt and opened the door. John stood a few feet back, his hands held up defensively, as if that would help him. His raised hands aside, he looked almost exactly as he had the last time she'd seen him, the day he'd come to her with news of Bill's death. His eyes were deeply shadowed and red rimmed. His face was an unhealthy grey and it was slack, as if he didn't even have the energy for an expression. He looked wrecked. Her first thought was who. Who had been hurt? Who had died this time?

"I know I shouldn't be here," he said, and even his voice was weaker than usual. A mere shadow of its usual gritty gravel. "I know I've got no right, but, Ellen, I need help."

He didn't look injured. She had seen John Winchester hurt. She'd seen him beaten and bleeding, even crying, but he didn't looked like that now. He looked broken.

"What do you think I can do for _you_?" she asked.

He shook his head dolefully. "I don't even know. I just knew I had to come somewhere. I don't know what to do with him."

Ellen frowned. "With who, John?" A horrible thought came to her. "Are the boys okay?"

John breathed a laugh. It was a tragic sound, devoid of all humor. It was all encompassing sadness. "They're not hurt."

"Then what is it?"

He didn't answer, he didn't seem capable, but it didn't matter. At that moment the rear right door of the Impala opened and a young boy almost fell out.

"Sammy, I told you to stay in there," John said, but there was no anger in his tone, just defeat.

"I wanted to see Dean," the boy said.

As he stepped into the light streaming from the open door, Ellen got a good look at Sam as her heart seemed to squeeze painfully in her chest. He looked so much like his father in a way no child had a right to. Not his features – they were all his mother; it was the fact this child was just as wrecked as his father.

"I told you," John said. "Dean's not coming back."

Sam began to cry. He made no noise; there were no sobs or gasping breaths, just silent tears that slipped down his cheeks.

Ellen's anger at John and desperation for answers was eclipsed by worry for this boy. She pushed past John and knelt in front of Sam. "Honey, what's happened?"

Sam wiped his face with the sleeve of his worn shirt. "I want Dean."

Ellen opened her arms and he fell into them as if he didn't have the will needed to resist the comfort offered. His small hands gripped the collar of the old flannel shirt that had once belonged to Bill, and he tucked his face in to her neck. She could feel his tears damping the cloth.

Ellen stood, scooping Sam up with her. He was too big for this really, he'd grown like a weed in the year since she'd last seen him, but it didn't matter to her. He needed loving on the way only a mother could, and as his mother was gone, she would do it in Mary Winchester's stead.

Without looking at John, she walked inside and through the bar, coming out in the small living quarters. She took Sam into the bedroom she and Bill had once shared and laid him down on the bed. He let himself be set down without fuss, and he curled into a small ball on the bedcovers, tears still creeping from his eyes.

"Okay, honey, I need to talk to your dad. Will you be okay in here?" she asked in a gentle voice.

He didn't speak but he nodded. She ran a hand through his hair and then, without thinking of what she was about to do, she bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'll be right back," she said, then turned and left the room.

John was sitting at a table, a full glass and a bottle of whiskey in front of him.

"Help yourself," she said dryly.

He looked up at her with those red eyes and she almost apologized. She withheld the urge though; she had nothing to apologize to John Winchester for.

He leaned slightly and rooted in his pocket for something. He pulled out a bill and laid it on the table. "This should cover it."

She shook her head. She didn't want his money. She didn't want him in her bar at all. What she wanted, in her most secret of hearts, was for him to leave now, alone. She wanted him to give her that broken boy to protect and take care of and get his presence, his damned memory drawing face, out of her life again.

She leaned over the bar and took a glass for herself from the shelf and then went to his table. She swung a chair around and sat down, leaning her arms on the back. She couldn't sit down with him directly. That seemed too intimate given everything that he had done to her and her family. The chair acted as a barrier, a message that she was here because she had to be and for no other reason. She wanted it clear that she forgave nothing. She was only here for his boys, the one on her bed and the one who was missing.

"Where's Dean?" she asked

John raised his head slowly, it seemed to take a great deal of effort for him to make the movement, and said, "Gone," in a cracked voice.

"He's okay?" she asked, heart beating madly in her chest. He had said they weren't hurt, but he had lied. Sam was hurting. Was Dean dead?

"He's not hurt. He's apparently winning prizes and acing school and dating," John said bitterly.

Ellen rubbed at her temples. She was getting a headache and John's cryptic answers weren't helping a damn. "Tell me everything."

John seemed to brace himself. He straightened and gripped the edge of the table. "Dean got caught shoplifting a couple months back. Stupid kid was ripping off a Gas-N-Sip for some crap or other. He'd lost the money I'd given him in a poker game. Who even lets a sixteen year old play poker?" He shook his head. "They took him in and the damn fool beat on the deputy. I've told him a hundred times, don't fight if you can't win. They took him in and called me…" He scraped a hand over his forehead hard as if hoping to wound himself. "I thought he needed to be taught a lesson, so I told them to keep him. I swung by and picked up Sam and we booked it."

Ellen was horrified by what she was hearing. John had willingly left Dean in lockup to teach him a lesson. What kind of parent did that? She couldn't ever imagine doing that to Jo.

John wasn't finished though. He went on, "A hunt came up, so I took Sam somewhere safe and went after it. Things came up, I never meant to leave him so long, but…"

"Are you telling me, John Winchester, that you left Dean in lockup for two months?"

"No," he said dolefully. "They took him to a correctional home; a place run by some guy named Sonny who takes in kids. It wasn't lockup. I thought it would teach him a lesson, that's all. I never imagined it could end like this."

"Like what?" Ellen asked. "What have you done, John?"

"I went to pick him up a couple days ago," he said. "I found the place he was staying, but he wasn't there…" He laughed that humorless laugh again. "He was at a damn school dance. He'd taken up with some girl and they were out at a social together. This guy Sonny, real piece of work, told me… Well, he told me all kinds of things. How I was a lunatic for one—seems Dean's been spilling the secrets to him like it was story time around a campfire. He said I was dangerous and I shouldn't have my boys. He… I had to do it, Ellen," he said imploringly. "I couldn't lose them both. I had to save Sam."

"Save him from what?" Ellen asked, her anger strong in her tone. "A good, normal life?"

John's face flushed with color, but when he spoke his voice wasn't angry, it was lifeless. "I had to keep Sam with me. I need to take care of him. Look out for him. Dean's sixteen. He can take care of himself; Sam can't yet. He needs me with him."

Ellen marshaled herself so she could speak without her voice shaking. "You're telling me you abandoned Dean in a correctional home so you could keep Sam?"

"Not just for that. He's doing so well, Ellen. I told you—acing school and kicking ass in contests. I just thought if I had to lose one them, surely it was better that it was Dean, knowing he'd have a good life. He's never had the chance for any of that; he wasn't even in school when Mary died. He's been a hunter since he was four years old. The best thing I can do for him now is let him go so he can have some kind of chance for a normal life."

"He's your son, John. How can you just leave your own son behind?"

John bowed his head and Ellen thought she saw a tear drop to his lap. "I love him, that's how. I love him enough to let him go."

Ellen looked at his bowed head and the tears that were now falling freely. He was a broken man, she could see. He hadn't made this decision lightly; no matter how screwed up the logic seemed to her, it was obvious he thought he was doing the right thing for Dean.

On the heels of that thought came another: Sam. That devastated boy, hopefully sleeping now, needed her more than anything. The poor kid had just lost his brother.

* * *

**So… Who wants John's head on a stick?**

**When I was outlining this story with Gredelina1 we both agreed that John shouldn't be a villain. He was doing what he thought was best for both of his boys. I thought I'd done a good job of writing that until I came back to edit this prologue and found myself cursing his name for what he did. When it came to not villainizing him, I failed spectacularly apparently. **

**Anyway… I know this is a very different story to anything you've read from me before, but I'm hoping some of you are prepared to come on the journey anyway. There is a little weechesters in the next chapter and then we'll be back to the adult Sam and Dean that I love to write—I'm not good with the young ones. **

**Hoping to see you next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	2. Chapter 1

**Thank you so much to Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help and support getting the story written. This story is theirs as much as it is mine. **

**I made a pretty serious booboo. I posted Chapter Two instead of chapter one. If you were one of the poor people that opened it straight away and though I skipped ahead a bunch, I apologize. Here's the real Chapter One**

* * *

_**Chapter One**_

Each of the beds was occupied by a sleeping boy, a boy who could wake up at any moment, but Dean was quiet as he crept across the room. One of John Winchester's rules was that you were only heard when you wanted to be, so he hadn't put his boots on yet for fear of one of the nightmare prone kids hearing his footsteps and their screwed up, traumatized brains interpreting it as something else. He'd heard Sonny talking them down after nightmares before, and he knew the horrors that lived in these kids' minds. Some of them were even worse than the real horrors Dean had seen in his life. Dreams about mothers being beaten by fathers and empty whiskey bottles being thrown at their young heads were not uncommon. Dean was lucky in comparison. The worst his father had ever done to him was leave him behind, taking his family away, taking Sam…

He shook his head jerkily. He wasn't going to think about that now, not when he was so close to finding them again.

He often wondered what he would do when he saw them. He'd thought about it for a year, in the twilight time before falling asleep, while picking vegetables from the garden for their dinner, while helping Sonny creosote the barn walls. He thought about it all the time. Part of him, the seventeen year old young adult, wanted to slug his dad, while the child in him wanted to hug his father and beg him to never leave him behind again. He wouldn't tell him it was all forgiven; it wasn't. He wouldn't tell him it was okay; it could never be. He would hug Sam though and make a fuss over how much he'd grown—not that it was likely he'd grown that much in a year, little shrimp that he was. He would love on Sam in the way only an older brother could; he'd ruffle his shaggy hair and he'd slap his back and maybe, just maybe, he'd show him what a man hug was.

He got to the door and it creaked on its hinges a little as he eased it open. Not enough to wake anyone, just loud enough for Dean's honed hunter senses to pick up. He'd never lost that, nor had he lost his speed or strength. He worked out every day, knowing that when he found John again, he'd need those skills to hunt.

He slipped through the door and crept past Sonny's room. Sonny was fast asleep; Dean could hear his freight train snores. Sonny would jerk awake at the first cry of a distressed child, but he would sleep through just about anything else, much to Dean's benefit.

Once he was past the bedrooms, it was easy. He stopped at the kitchen door and pulled on his shoes. The keys to Sonny's truck were hanging where they always did, on the lintel; he grabbed them and went outside.

The truck was ancient, but the engine purred when Dean turned the key. He had been helping Sonny with the upkeep since he arrived. He liked to pay his way, and his mechanical skills were second only to one man. He'd been taught by the best.

He didn't look back as he drove along the dirt track that led to the main road. He knew Sonny would be pissed when he found his truck _and_ Dean missing, but Dean would hook him up with the truck again as soon as he was out of the way. Because he knew this was the hunt that would reunite them. He just knew it.

Sorry, Sonny, he thought, but I'm going home.

* * *

The drive to Pennsylvania took a few hours, and dawn was breaking across the sky when Dean finally pulled the truck into the parking lot of the Quiet Nights motel. It was a little place, probably only twenty rooms, but the vacancies sign was lit, so Dean was good for the night. He thought it was the kind of place John would be attracted to as well. He smiled to himself as he thought of bumping into his dad by the soda machines.

He went into the small office to book a room, and recoiled at the dense smoke. The man behind the counter had a hand-rolled cigarette hanging clutched between two nicotine stained fingers.

"What can I do for ya?" he asked.

Dean thought it was a stupid question given the man's choice of vocation. Why else would he be here except to check in, unless the man thought Dean wanted to bum a smoke of course.

"I need a room," Dean said. "A twin if you have one." He and Sam could share and John could get the adjoining room if it was free. If not, Dean could crash on the floor. It wouldn't be the first time.

"How many nights?"

"Two," Dean said. They would need a couple days to deal with everything before moving on. From what Dean had seen of the town as he'd driven through, he thought it was nice enough. He'd even seen an arcade on Main Street that Sam would get a kick out of. He was a killer on the penny shove machines.

"That'll be seventy even," the man said.

Dean fished out his wallet and laid the required bills on the counter. He had a small stash of cash he'd earned mowing lawns and doing odd jobs for the people in town on weekends. Sonny encouraged hard work and Dean had embraced it for the sake of money. He always knew he'd need it when he found Sam and John again. He wanted to show them he hadn't been slacking in the time since they'd last seen him; he'd been making something of himself.

The man leaned back in his chair and snagged a key from the wall behind him. "Thirteen," he said, handing the key to Dean.

Unlucky for some, Dean thought. Not for me. Not this time.

He thanked the man and made his way out again, taking a deep breath of clean air. Thirteen was easy to find; it was the corner unit. Though it had been pure chance that he'd gotten the room, he knew John would be pleased. He always liked to be on the periphery, even when it was just for a motel room.

The room was cleaner than some Dean had stayed in before, but it wouldn't be winning any _Good Housekeeping_ awards any time soon. Not that it bothered Dean. Despite the fact that he had been staying in Sonny's clean and organized place for a year, he had a lifetime of memories involving grungy motel rooms. There was an unexpected bonus in the form of a dilapidated couch under the window that Dean could sleep on. He sat down, testing the springs. It wasn't too bad. He'd slept on worse.

It was too early to go to the library to battle with their microfiche readers, so he kicked back and thought of what he already knew about the case. There had been three murders. The deaths had only made the news because the victims were all found in locked rooms and were members of the same college fraternity that had come into town to spend a weekend at some winery for their ten-year reunion. Dean thought it was a pretty weak way to spend a weekend with college buddies. His knowledge of fraternities was limited, it came from movies mainly, but he always thought beer pong was their thing, not sipping frou-frou wines in some vineyard. Apparently, graduating college involved having your balls removed. Luckily, Dean wouldn't run that risk. The only school he planned on graduating from was John Winchester's School of Hunting.

* * *

When the day was old enough for the library to be open, Dean set out across town on foot. He didn't want to waste more of his money on gas. John was perpetually short of cash, so it would be good to be able to help out with that when he found them again.

Libraries weren't exactly Dean favorite places, despite the hours he'd spent in them over the years. No matter how clean they looked, they all seemed full of dust that got up Dean's nose and made him sneeze the rest of the day. There was also the silence thing. You couldn't discuss what you were supposed to be looking for when people were bitching about how you were disrupting their study time. It was all a load of pain in the ass nonsense as far as Dean was concerned, but he needed to know if there was anything funky about the winery, so he sucked it up and went in.

He made his way to the counter where a woman was stamping out children's books for a young mom with a toddler on her hip. He waited patiently, feeling his nose start to tickle already, until she was done and then he stepped forward with a smile in place.

"Hey. I need to get a look at some old newspapers."

The woman returned his smile. She was young, maybe early twenties, hot with the whole glasses and bun hair look. Dean liked her.

"They're all on the microfiche," she said. "What years are you looking for?"

"I'm not sure." Dean leaned an elbow on the counter. "I'm looking into the history of the Lakeville Winery. How it changed the town, stuff like that."

"Oh, the winery's lovely," she gushed. "My boyfriend and I visited just a month ago. It's been here since the thirties, so it did have a great impact on the town's economy back then."

Dean nodded along with her. "Yeah, I bet. Here's the thing. I was looking for something to add a little spice to the story. Has there ever been anything… hinky about the place? Any accidents or deaths? Anything like that?"

"No… There was a grape harvest failure in the eighties, some bug or another almost destroyed the business, but they came through in the end." She frowned. "You know it's weird. We get the occasional tourist in, wanting to know more about the winery, but you're the second in two days and you're both asking weird questions. You're not with him, are you?"

Dean's heart leapt into his throat. Of course, John would have to research this thing, too, and he'd use the library. Was it possible that he was in town already? Hell, they could be checked into the same motel. "What guy?" he asked intensely, casting away his cover story in eagerness to get some answers.

She looked startled. "I'm not sure. I didn't deal with him, my colleague did. She told me about it after he was gone because it was strange. He asked all about the history of the winery and then spent an hour or so in the archives. I know he was older, but that's all. What's this about?"

Dean didn't bother to answer. He was already turning and making for the door at a trot. John was a day ahead of him apparently. He had done the legwork and was probably already narrowing down the case to a killer. Dean had to go. He had only seen one motel on his way into town, and this place was small so other than the fancy pants hotel near the winery there was unlikely to be more. They _had_ to be checked into the same place. Dean was sure of it. All the time he'd spent kicking his heels, waiting for the day to age, and he could have been with them already. He could have been with Sam.

He burst out of the library and ran full pelt down the street. He had to get back to the motel now before they moved on. He almost ran into the mom with the toddler from the library halfway down Main Street. She was pushing a stroller along now and it was only at the last moment that Dean noticed her and veered around her, knocking her purse from her shoulder as he did.

"Sorry!" he shouted over his shoulder.

There was no sign of the Impala in the motel parking lot, but Dean didn't give up hope. John could be out dealing with the fugly or getting food or even searching for an open bar to celebrate in. That was okay. Sam would be there, Dean was sure. He'd get the biggest surprise when he opened the door and saw Dean again. The thought made Dean's lips curve into a smile so wide it hurt. He was so close.

Part of him wanted to bang on every door, shouting for his brother, but another one of John's rules was 'go unnoticed' and it was so ingrained in Dean that he obeyed it still. Instead, he went into the motel office for help. The smoke had cleared somewhat, though the place still smelled foul, and there was a maternal looking woman at the desk.

"Can I help you, dear?" she asked.

"I sure hope so. I'm supposed to be meeting my father and brother here—I'm on a break from college—and I forgot the time we're supposed to meet. I don't suppose you've noticed a guy with a kid. He's thirteen," he added helpfully. Thirteen in three days to be exact. Dean had a card for him in his duffel that he'd picked up on the way out of New York.

The woman tapped her chin. "I checked in an older man yesterday, but I didn't notice a child."

That didn't necessarily mean he wasn't there, Dean thought. John could have dropped Sam with someone else while he took the hunt, or Sam could just have been sleeping when they arrived.

"Do you remember which room?" Dean asked.

"Oh, well I really shouldn't…" she started.

"Please," Dean said with his best wide-eyed, innocent expression. "If it's not him, I'll make my apologies and move on. It's just I've only got a little time before I'm due back at school and I'd hate to waste any time I could have with my brother."

"Okay," she said in an indulgent tone. "He's on the other end of the block to you. Room one. It's the only other occupied room we've got at the moment."

Dean flashed her a wide smile and stepped out of the office. His heart raced and his palms were sweaty. He'd been waiting for this for a year, and now it was happening. He was so caught up in the moment he didn't notice the car parked beside Sonny's truck. If he'd seen, he would have known.

He rapped on the door, his head filled with buzzing thoughts that he couldn't untangle. He heard plodding footsteps and he smoothed his hair down. The door opened and a man stood on the threshold.

"Dean?"

Dean nodded stiffly, swallowed his disappointment and said. "Hey, Bobby."

* * *

Once Bobby had gotten over the shock of seeing him again, he invited Dean in and now they were seated opposite each other with Bobby on the bed and Dean perched on the edge of the couch as if prepared to run at a moment's notice. He wasn't going to run. At least he didn't think he was. He was so confused and upset that he couldn't decide what he wanted to do. One thing he knew was that John wasn't there, nor was Sam.

"How've you been?" Bobby asked awkwardly.

Dean shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

Bobby shook his head. "Sorry. That was a stupid question. I guess I was just hoping for better."

"You know what happened then?"

"About your daddy leaving you in lockup?" Bobby asked. "Yeah. I heard."

"Have you seen him?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Not for a while," Bobby said with a grim smile. "Not since I chased him off my property with my shotgun anyway."

"Why'd you do that?" Dean and John had always been friends. Dean had spent months at Bobby's place over the years while John took hunts or researched in Bobby's library. Bobby had been family.

"Because of you," Bobby said, his tone indicating that it should have been obvious. "He came by about a year ago and told me what had happened. We… had words, and when he told me I should mind my own business, I kinda lost my temper. For what he did to you, I should have pulled the trigger."

"It wasn't his fault, Bobby," Dean said quickly. "I deserved it. I lost all the money in a poker game and then was stupid enough to get busted stealing."

"Stealing food for your brother I'm guessing. You made a mistake, Dean. We've all done it, your daddy included. That's no excuse for what he did. And then to just leave you there. You don't do that to family. I told him the same thing."

Dean could imagine the scene easily, Bobby's anger coming up against John's stubbornness. It was incredible that Bobby hadn't pulled the trigger.

"What did he say?" Dean asked.

"He gave me some crap about you having a better life there, something about wrestling and school and a girl. I wasn't listening to it. I was too busy locking and loading." Bobby scrubbed a hand through his beard. "Is it?"

"Is it what?" Dean asked, brow furrowed.

"A better life?"

"No," Dean said quickly. "I guess it's not a bad life. I've been in the same school for a year and I'm doing okay. I've got a girl. Sonny, the guy whose home it is, is a good man. He takes care of us well enough. But it's not the same. There's no…"

"Sam?"

"Yeah, there's no Sam." He looked hopeful. "Have you heard anything about him? Was he there when you chased Dad off?"

"No, or I wouldn't have pulled the gun. I asked, of course, when he told me what he'd done to you, but he just said Sam was with family. Since I know all the rest of your family is dead, I'm kinda at a loss. I heard from Jim Murphy a few months ago and he said John had taken Sam by Blue Earth when he swung by to pick up a weapon, and he seemed okay, but I haven't heard anything since. I don't think even Jim knows who this 'family' is. He said John's a mite paranoid these days. I guess after abandoning one kid, you hang on tighter to the one you've got left."

Dean felt a lump form in his throat and he swallowed it down with effort. "I guess."

Bobby slapped his hands down on his knees and cleared his throat. "So, what are you doing here anyway? Is this Sonny local?"

Dean laughed. "Nah. We live in upstate New York. I heard about the case and I thought maybe I could, you know, find them."

Bobby's face seemed to crumple into lines of sadness. "Dean…"

"It's okay," Dean said bracingly. "I'm guessing you already took care of it."

"Not quite. I'm pretty sure it's a vengeful spirit though, and I know where the body's planted, so it's not going to be a tough one. Anyway, that's not what's important right now. What matters is you."

"I'm fine," Dean said quickly.

"Yeah, sure you are. I'm sure this Sonny knows exactly where you are and what you're doing."

"I'm seventeen," Dean said stiffly. "Besides, I'll be heading straight back. If they're not here, there's no point me hanging around. No offence."

"None taken."

Dean got to his feet and held out a hand to shake. "Well, thanks for filling me in, Bobby. I appreciate it."

Bobby shook his hand but he didn't loosen his grip after. "Are you going to be okay, Dean?"

"Sure I will," Dean said easily.

"Really?"

Dean pulled his hand free and rubbed at the back of his neck. "What else can I be, Bobby?" he asked. "Until I find them again, I have to be okay."

Bobby was silent a long time, seeming to be weighing something up in his mind, and then he said, "You know, I hate losing things. Keys, a pen, a book, it doesn't matter. It makes me crazy. But you know when I find them again?"

Dean shook his head.

"When I stop looking."

Dean stood in shock for a moment and then said, "You think I should give up on them?"

"I think you should stop looking for _him_. He knows where to find you, Dean, and when he's ready, he'll come get you."

"You think he will?"

"I'm certain," Bobby said. "You know your father, he's more stubborn than anyone else I know, but he believes in family. One day he'll come back for you, and it'll do no good if you're halfway across the country looking for him at the time. I say live your life, spend time with your girl, and kick ass in school. Have something to show him when he comes. Show him you've made something of yourself."

Dean nodded and turned, his mind filled with what Bobby had said. He opened the door and was halfway out when Bobby called after him, "Dean, stay in touch, okay?"

* * *

Dean pulled Sonny's truck to a stop beside the barn and climbed out.

Two boys came out of the house, empty brown sacks slung over their shoulders. "Dean!" the taller of the two said happily. "You been on another trip?"

"Something like that, Nate," Dean replied. "Who's this?"

Nate shoved the shoulder of the slightly smaller boy. He looked about ten. "This is Drew. He arrived this morning. His Mom got arrested again and the foster places were all filled."

"Sorry to hear that, Drew," Dean said. "But you'll make out fine here. Sonny's a good guy, and as long as you stick close to Nate, he'll make sure you learn the ropes quick enough."

Drew's chin jutted out. "I don't need to learn the ropes. I won't be here long. Mom didn't do anything wrong, so they'll have to let her out."

"That's good. Well, you boys better get on with what you're supposed to be doing."

"Were getting the veggies for dinner," Nate said cheerfully. "See ya, Dean."

Dean watched them running off toward the barn and he smiled. They were good kids who had been dealt a shitty hand in life, yet people like Nate never lost their sense of humor.

Dean's musings were interrupted by a throat clearing behind him. He knew it was Sonny even before he turned and his heart sank. He wouldn't be pissed, he never was, but he'd be disappointed, and that was somehow worse.

Dean took a breath then pasted a smile on his face before turning and saying, "Hey, Sonny."

Sonny had two cans of soda in his hands, and he held one out to Dean as he came down the steps.

"Can't swap that for a beer, can you?" Dean asked. "It's been a hell of a day."

"I bet it has," Sonny said. "Taking off in the middle of the night will make for a bad day."

Dean groaned. "Okay. Let's get this over with. Give me the speech." He sat down on the top step and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Tell me you're not pissed, just disappointed."

Sonny sat beside him and popped the top of his can then took a deep slug. "Robin came by this morning. Apparently, you had plans for breakfast. She was mighty upset when I had to tell her you'd taken off again."

Dean cursed quietly. He completely forgotten they'd made plans. It wouldn't have stopped him going if he had remembered, but he would at least have left her a note explaining.

"Yeah," Sonny said. "You screwed up."

"It was only breakfast, Sonny," Dean said. "She'll get over it."

Sonny leveled him with a dark look. "It wasn't only breakfast though, was it? It was you taking off again, maybe for good. If you'd found them, you wouldn't have come back. You want to tell me what it was this time?"

"Vengeful spirit."

Sonny laughed softly. "Of course it was. And you took care of it?"

"Nah, I ran into an old hunter friend and he was on the case already."

Sonny looked interested. "A friend?"

"Yeah, Bobby Singer. I think I've told you about him. He and my dad were tight, though according to Bobby that's crapped out since he dumped me. Anyway, Bobby took the hunt and Dad and Sam weren't there, so I came back."

"Dean," Sonny said tiredly, "this has to stop. You can't keep taking off and chasing these 'hunts'. It's going to destroy you."

Dean stared out at the fields surrounding the farm and considered. It was the second time that day someone had told him to stop, and for the first time he was considering it as an actual possibility. Before he made that choice though, he had to know it all.

"What happened that night?" he asked. "When my dad came back for me." They'd never really gone over the details before. At first, Dean had been too angry and then he'd been scared of the answer.

Sonny sighed heavily. "He came by shortly after you left to pick up Robin. He had your kid brother in the car. He just sat there, tooting his horn like he was at a drive-thru and I was taking too long with his order. I went out and he just told me to get you. It was time for you to go. I was angry, Dean, it'd been two months without a word, so I asked him where the hell he'd been. He gave me some bull about hunting something called a Kumiho. It was the fact that he was doing it in front of your brother that did it. He didn't even care that the poor kid was sitting there listening to it all. I got mad and he did, and before I knew it, he was out of the car and we were facing off. I told him he didn't deserve you or your brother. I told him he was crazy. I told him how well you'd been doing here. I told him a lot of things, and then before I knew what was happening, he was driving off."

"Leaving me here," Dean said quietly.

"I'll take my share of the blame," Sonny said. "I shouldn't have lost my temper with him, but I'll only take a share. I didn't force him to go, and if I'd known what was going to happen, I'd have made sure to stop him."

Dean couldn't blame Sonny, much as he wanted to. He knew better than anyone that John Winchester could raise anyone's hackles. There was the hunting thing, too. Sonny didn't believe, which was fine, good for him even, but it was the truth, and being told he was crazy would have pissed John off no end. Sonny had screwed up, as had John, but only one of them drove away and abandoned Dean.

"Bobby says if I stop looking, I'll find them.

"I think Bobby sounds like a smart guy. I can't guarantee your dad will come back, but I can tell you you're not going to do anything good by dropping everything and chasing across the country looking for them whenever you see something weird in the papers. How many times has it been, Dean? Seven? Eight? And you haven't found them. But they know where you are. Way I see it, you've got a chance at a good life. You're smart. You could go to college and make something of yourself, or you could stay here forever waiting for them to come back. I know which I'd choose."

"What if they never come back?" Dean asked in a voice so quiet he wasn't even sure Sonny would hear him.

"Then you wait till you've done something with your life for them to be proud of and you find them. You want your kid brother to be proud, don't you?"

Dean nodded. He wanted that more than almost anything.

"Then you knuckle down and get on with life," Sonny said. "And when you find him, you'll have something good to tell him."

Dean listened to his words, feeling them resonate with him like a drum beat in his chest. He wanted that. He wanted a life. But he wanted his family, too. He wanted Sam. But Sonny was right; he wanted to have something to show Sam when he saw him again, something outside of hunts and research, something good for a change.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'll do it."

Sonny clapped him on the shoulder. "You're making the right choice, Dean. Now, how's about you get to work making the beds. Just because you've wrecked yourself driving half the night, doesn't mean you get out of chores."

Dean laughed and got to his feet.

"Thank you, Sonny. For everything."

* * *

**So… This was possibly one of the weirdest chapters I've ever written. Writing Dean so young and vulnerable was hard for me. I am so used to him being… Well, Dean. Hopefully I did an okay job of it. We'll be moving onto adult Dean in the next chapter—which was much easier to write—and I hope you'll join me there. **

**You guys blew me away with the response to the prologue. I really appreciate the support and hope to hear from you again soon. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	3. Chapter 2

**Many thanks to Jenjoremy for beta'ing this so fast so I could get it out to you today. Also to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all their help plotting and writing. **

**I made a pretty big boo-boo when I posted the last chapter - thankfully Jenjoremy spotted it. I posted Chapter Two instead of Chapter One. If you were one of the ones that read it before I corrected, it might be a good idea to go back a chapter to see what you missed. **

_**Chapter Two**_

Happy 13th Birthday Sammy!

I was hoping to give you this card in person, but shit happens, so I'll hang onto it till I see you. A teenager already, huh. Hope you're giving Dad hell and making the most of your Winchester genes with the ladies. Speaking of ladies, I've got a girl. No, not a hookup, an actual date going girlfriend. Bet you never thought that'd happen! She's awesome. Her name's Robin and she kicks ass on guitar. Imagine Jimmy Page in a hot little package and you'll have an idea of how big I lucked out.

Take care of yourself.

See you real soon,

_Dean _

* * *

Happy 14th Sammy!

Another birthday already. Can't believe it's been so long.

Got some big news for ya. Hold onto your socks, little bro. I am going to college. No. Really. I am. Turns out you didn't get _all_ the brains in the family after all. I managed to get myself a scholarship. Got Sonny to thank for it really. He was on my ass for the last year about getting my applications out and it turns out some college in Nebraska wants some of the awesomeness of Dean Winchester. Never thought this was how my life would turn out. You, yeah, no question, you're going to rock college when you get there, but never me.

Kegger parties here I come!

See you,

_Dean_

* * *

Happy 15th Sammy!

Hope you're having an awesome day wherever you are.

Things with me are good. I've managed almost a year of college and I haven't been kicked out yet. Haven't even been put on probation. I call that a win.

Things with Robin and me didn't work out in the end. The long distance thing was too much to handle. Not that I'm lonely. There's plenty to keep me busy here. My course load is crazy, so I don't get out to many keggers after all. Didn't tell you before, but I'm studying social work. It sounds cheesy as hell, I know, but I want to help people, kids really. I think I can make a difference. Yeah. That really does sound cheesy. It's just there were so many damaged kids at Sonny's. It made me see that they need someone on their side. White knight Dean to the rescue, huh.

I lucked out with my roommate. His name's Mason and he's a decent guy. Keeps himself to himself and doesn't ask about the salt on the windowsill. I may be out of the life but that doesn't mean I'm stupid.

I hope you're doing okay.

See you,

_Dean_

* * *

Happy 16th Birthday Sammy!

Another year gone already. If I was there, I'd buy you a beer. Well, I'd sneak you a beer out of Dad's stash. Same thing really. Hope you do it for yourself. It's a rite of passage after all.

Seems crazy that I was only a few months older than you when I last saw you. You were a shrimp of a thing with that crazy space obsession. Do you still have that toy rocket? You used to take that damn thing everywhere with you. I gotta wonder if you're still into space stuff. Hell, for all I know, you could be training up to be the next man on the moon right now. Only kidding. You're way too young.

School is going good but roommate situation sucks. Mason got booted. Turns out he kept to himself because he didn't want me to know he was dealing crack around campus. Think you know a guy… New roommate is called Austin and he's a prize dick. I know you'll find it hard to believe it, but I actually like to get some studying done occasionally, and if he's not banging a girl in our room, he's partying with his buddies in our room. I've become a regular at the campus library. Turns out there's more to the places than books on lore and microfiche archives. It's actually pretty cool when people aren't yapping and destroying my concentration. I know we used to be the ones yapping but times change, little brother.

You take care of yourself,

Soon, buddy,

_Dean_

* * *

Happy 17th Sammy!

I'd ask how you're doing but for once I actually know! Bobby heard Caleb and Dad took a werewolf hunt and you went along for the ride. According to Caleb, that elusive growth spurt finally caught up to you. He said you're a proper giant now. I find that hard to believe, but then again, stranger things have happened.

Feels like forever ago that me and Dad took that werewolf hunt. I think about it all the time. Not the hunt exactly, but what came after. I know better than anyone that I screwed up, but I have to wonder sometimes if the punishment fits the crime. I try to believe what Bobby said about me having a better life, but it's hard sometimes. How can it be a better life when you're not in it?

Okay, I'm going to stop there before I grow a vagina.

Got a steady girl again. The first since Robin. Her name's Beth and she's pretty awesome. Pretty all round really. Super smart, would make you and me combined look like a dumbass. She's studying pre-med. It suits her, you know what I mean? She's _meant_ to help people. Kinda like how I want to be.

See ya,

_Dean_

* * *

Happy 18th Sam! Welcome to adulthood. It's a hell of a ride.

Yeah, I called you Sam. Seems to me that an eighteen year old isn't going to take well to being called Sammy, even if you're still a shrimpy twelve year old in my head.

College is almost over if you can believe it. I'm done with finals, so I'm just kicking my heels until graduation. That should be quite an event. Both Sonny and Bobby are making the trip to see me walk. I've got an internship lined up in the city. Scary as hell—it's all been theory so far—but exciting too. I'll actually be out there, helping kids at last.

You should be just about ready for graduation, too. My little brother all grown up. Can't tell you how weird that feels. What's next, little brother? I like to think you're all set for college. I can't imagine you staying in the life. Hell, even at twelve you were done with it and that was just research.

Beth's going to Harvard for med school—told ya she was smart—so I'll be back to doing the long distance thing again. No idea whether it'll work out or not. We're both going to be working so damn hard meeting up will be almost an impossibility. Gonna try though. Have you got a lady in your life? I know you're handicapped without me there to teach you the ways of the ladies, but you've got Winchester genes so you should manage alright on your own.

Soon, Sammy,

_Dean_

* * *

Happy 19th Sam!

Man, what a year. I thought college was tough, but it's got nothing on the actual real world. I'm taking my own cases now, and these kids, Sam, they're so damaged. I feel so useless half the time. All I've got is words and what they need is action. I wish I could slap some sense into some of the parents. Don't get me wrong, they're not all bad, some are sick but trying, but when you see what it's doing to the kids, it kills you.

Beth and me didn't work out. Long distance is just too damn hard when mixed with insane workloads. I'm currently single, but that's okay. To be honest, when I get home at the end of a day, I'm too damn wiped to even think about dates. Don't worry though, I haven't turned in to some kind of loner. There's some good guys in the area I live in, and we make a point to hang out on weekends.

Speaking of living, I've got myself a house now. It's pretty small, but it's my place to come to at the end of the day. I've also invested in a motorbike. I needed something to get me around the city and none of the cars I could afford were any good. When you learn to drive in a '67 Impala, there's nothing else that comes close. The bike's a beauty though: a '95 Harley Lowrider. It was a heap when I bought it, but I've fixed that baby right up so it purrs. I'd tell you more but twelve-year-old you had zero interest in mechanics and I've got no reason to think that's changed.

That's what sucks the most. I have no idea who you are anymore. You're still my little brother, no doubt, but you're a man now and I only ever knew you as a kid. When I see you next, we're going to have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.

I _will _find you, Sam,

_Dean _

* * *

Dean rubbed at his tired eyes. It had been a hell of a morning, and he wasn't close to finishing yet.

He loved his job, no question, but it was emotionally draining. He'd just gotten back to the office from checking in with a twelve year old in foster care. The kid had been taken from his abusive father a month ago, and he was so damn sad it infected Dean like poison. It was the young ones that were the hardest. They reminded him so much of Sam. It didn't matter that Sam was now a twenty-three year old man—Dean had missed yet another birthday—he was always going to be a kid to Dean until he saw him again. Dean never gave up hope that day would come. He made himself as accessible as it was possible to be. He was listed in the phonebook. He had Bobby on the lookout for any news. He'd even joined that Facebook thing that all the kids were talking about. So far there had been nothing, but that didn't mean there never would be. One day…

His phone rang on the desk and Dean picked it up. Jen, the center's receptionist, spoke and Dean's heart sank even further. "Dean, Katie Morgan's here. She says she needs to see you."

"Tell her to come on in," Dean replied then set down the receiver.

Katie was one of many on his caseload. He hadn't seen her in a few weeks, not since her mother got out of rehab for the third time, and her visit couldn't mean anything good. She was a sweet girl who didn't deserve the lot life had dealt out for her.

The door opened and Katie stepped in. Dean knew right away this was going to be an even worse visit than usual. Her blonde hair was tangled and her eyes were red-rimmed from tears. She smiled when she saw him though.

"Hey, Katie," he said warmly.

"Hey, Dean. What's new?"

Dean leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand along his jawline. He tried to think of anything normal to talk about with her, as was their fashion. Some kids liked to get the meetings over and done with, but Katie needed to settle first. "I got myself a vinyl of Physical Graffiti from Tower Records over the weekend. Hank stung me for it so bad I might have to eat PB&amp;J for the rest of the month, but it's totally worth it."

"Zeppelin's _always_ worth it," she said, and though she tried to force enthusiasm into her voice, she failed to fool Dean.

She toyed with the hem of her sleeve and Dean caught a glimpse of a mottled bruise on her wrist. He almost groaned. This wasn't going to be an easy session at all.

"How about you?" he asked, his tone even despite his emotional turmoil.

She glanced around the small office, avoiding his gaze. He had done his best to transform the dull room with its brown chairs and beech desk into somewhere people felt comfortable. He had hung posters of his favorite bands on the wall and added a couple of cushions for the chairs in bright blue. On the desk was a framed photo of him and Sam from the summer before Dean had lost him. Bobby had taken the picture of them sitting on the hood of one of his junkers. Dean remembered giving Sam a boost to get him up there. It had been a good day.

"Mom's drinking again," Katie said almost in a whisper.

Dean nodded, his suspicions confirmed. "Did she do that to your wrist?" he asked.

She rolled up her sleeves and Dean saw both wrists were bruised. "She caught me trying to empty the bottles down the sink. I made her mad."

Dean wanted to know more, he needed to know more, but he sensed Katie wasn't ready to talk about what it was doing to her so he redirected. "How's Gracie doing?"

Talking about Katie's seven-year-old sister was usually a surefire way to cheer her up, but this time Katie's eyes filled with tears again. "She's wetting the bed again. I keep waking up to find her in bed with me, all wet."

"Has your mom been hurting her, too?"

"No. I protect her. Mom's only mean when she's pissed, and I make sure Gracie doesn't make her pissed."

Dean knew what had to happen next, and though he knew it was for the best, he was loathe to do it to this sweet girl. She would never forgive him. She had to be protected though. He had no choice. It was the law.

"Okay," he said, handing her a Kleenex from the side table. "How about you and me swing by home to get Gracie and then go out for something to eat while I see what I can do to help?"

Katie wiped her eyes and nodded. "I'd like that."

"You go ahead to the bathroom and clean yourself up then we'll head out. I've got to make a couple calls first."

She got to her feet and smiled at him. "Thank you, Dean. I knew you'd help."

"Every time," he vowed.

When the door had clicked shut behind her, Dean picked up his phone and took a deep breath. He had to do it, it was the only way, but that didn't make him feel less of an asshole for it.

He dialed and a smooth, professional voice answered. "Fremont Child Protective Services. Lynn speaking."

"Lynn, it's Dean Winchester," he said. "I need you to file an emergency protection order for me."

"What's the names?" she asked.

"Katherine and Grace Morgan." He glanced over the manila file on his desk. "1451 East Dodge Street. Father absent. Mother's an alcoholic that's physically abusive. We need to work fast."

"Of course," she said smoothly. "Are the children with you now?"

"Katherine is. We're going to collect her sister now and head to Arby's for something to eat."

"That's not procedure, Dean," she said.

"Neither is leaving a kid to be beaten while the Judge finishes his round of golf."

"Okay," she conceded. "But on your own head be it."

"Like that's anything new."

They made plans for the children to be collected from him either at Arby's or the office and then exchanged goodbyes.

Dean grabbed his jacket and went out to the main office. Katie was waiting on the plush chairs in the waiting room. Dean nodded to her and then made his way over to the desk where Jen sat. He flashed her his best smile. "I've got a mighty need for an Arby's lunch, and Katie's going to treat me." He winked at Katie. "Any chance we can borrow your car? As awesome as my bike is, it only seats two and we're going to be a party of three with Gracie."

Jen looked up, refusal already on her lips, Dean was sure, and then she caught sight of his intense expression as he tried to communicate the truth with her.

"Oh, fine," she said with a sigh. "But you take care of it. If you dent it, I will dent you."

"Naturally," Dean said.

She handed him the keys and after promising to be careful, he and Katie set out for the parking lot.

They had no trouble getting Gracie from the house. Katie said her mom was passed out on the couch when she went in. Gracie seemed excited by everything they were doing. She gushed over Jen's car—which was a fairly ordinary Ford, though it had the bonus of being last year's model—and was thrilled by the springs in her seat and the electric windows. They spent the short drive with her bouncing in her seat and chattering about all the stores they were passing. Dean guessed she and her sister didn't get into the city much.

When they got to the restaurant, Dean let them pick the table, making sure he was in the seat facing the door. When the waitress came over to deliver the menus, both girls pored over them for ages before making their choices. Dean took it for granted that people ate out like this— he didn't think he'd had a home-cooked meal in his youth other than the chili that was Bobby's specialty, not after his mother died anyway—but the girls seemed awed.

The food tasted like sawdust in Dean's mouth, probably because he was so on edge, and he gave up after half of his sandwich. He sipped coffee instead and watched the door. The girls were just finishing their meals when his phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message from Lynn asking him where they were. He replied with the address and stowed it away. This was the moment it was all going to come down around him. He was doing the right thing, he knew it, but he also knew he was about to break two hearts—three if their mom wasn't so liquor sodden as he believed.

Eventually, the door swung open and Lynn came in with a woman Dean had met a few times in the course of his work. Her name was Beryl and she was a middle-aged, matronly woman who took in foster kids on occasion. She was a good woman, and Katie and Gracie would be well taken care of with her.

They came to the edge of the table and the first flicker of anxiety crossed Katie's face. "Dean, who are they?" she asked in a small voice.

Dean could have left Lynn to explain; it was part of her job as the person who had arranged the EPO, but that would make him a coward.

"This is Lynn and Beryl," Dean said. "Lynn works with me, and Beryl's a foster parent. She's going to take you home with her for a while, just until your mom gets back on her feet."

"A foster home!" Katie gasped, wide-eyed and afraid.

Dean nodded. "She'll take care of you."

"Katie, what's happening?" Gracie asked, her lip trembling.

"_I_ take care of us!" Katie said furiously. "I do it every time."

"You shouldn't have to though, honey," Beryl said.

Katie leveled a glare at Dean and he stared back into her eyes, not betraying the heartbreak he felt.

"You said you'd help me," she accused.

"I _am_ helping you," Dean said. "This is for the best."

Beryl slid into the booth beside Gracie and laid an arm around her trembling shoulders. "You and your sister and going to come stay with me for a while," she said gently. "I have lots of toys and you can even have your own rooms."

"I don't want my own room," Gracie said. "I want to stay with Katie."

"That's okay," Beryl said. "I have a room with two beds. You can share if you like."

"What about momma?" Gracie asked. "Where's she gonna sleep?"

"Your mom isn't very well," Beryl said. "We're going to take care of you while she gets better."

"No!" Gracie burst into tears. "I don't want you! I want my momma!"

Katie turned to Dean, her eyes narrowed and her usually pale face flushed with anger. "I will _never _forgive you for this! Never!"

Dean nodded. "That's okay. I wouldn't forgive me either. But this is for the best, Katie. They can take care of you."

Aware that his presence was doing no one any good, Dean slid out from the booth and made for the counter to pay. He handed over the bills to a curious looking waitress and then plodded from the restaurant. As he closed the door behind him, he saw Gracie nestled under Beryl's arm and Katie staring after him with hatred in her eyes.

All in all, it was a shitty day all around.

* * *

Dean wanted nothing more than to go home and drown his sorrows with a few beers, but there was paperwork to do and things to check on. He sat down at his desk and rubbed his temples. He had a headache building behind his eyes.

He had no more appointments scheduled that day, so he flipped on his CD player quietly and let the strains of _Ramble On_ work their way through him, soothing his frayed nerves.

He turned on his computer and set to work documenting the events of the day. An EPO was a serious matter and he needed to make sure all the facts were down to cover himself and to make sure the girls didn't slip through the net and get sent home before they were ready. He had faith in the system, he couldn't do the job he did otherwise, but he was aware it sometimes failed and kids suffered because of it.

He was just emailing off copies of his work to the appropriate people and printing the pages for his own records when his cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Bobby's name flash across the screen. He connected the call and lifted the phone to his ear, eager to hear a familiar, comforting voice and maybe some good news for a change.

"Bobby, tell me you got something for me," he said.

There was a deep indrawn breath on the other end of the line and then Bobby said, "It's not good, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. "Can it wait?" he asked hopefully. "Today's been a shit-storm and I'm just about done."

"Afraid not. It's important."

"Okay, hit me."

"Jim Murphy and Caleb are dead."

Dean sucked in a breath. "Jesus. What happened?"

"I'm not sure. Details are a little sketchy at the moment. Dean, that's not all," Bobby said heavily.

Dean wasn't sure he had it in him to hear more bad news, but he was a Winchester, despite everything that had happened, and that meant you had to suck it up and get on with it. "Go on."

"It's your daddy," Bobby said heavily. "Dean, I think he might be dead, too."

Dean dropped the phone and it clattered onto the desk. He could hear Bobby's voice coming through the tinny speaker, but it barely registered.

His dad. Dead. It wasn't possible.

"Dean!" Bobby must have been shouting as it broke through Dean's stupor and made him pick the phone up again.

"I'm here," he said in a dull tone. "What make you think he's dead?"

"Hunter talk. Walt heard it from Steve and Steve heard it at some hunters' haunt out your way. It might not be true, you know how these things sometimes get mixed up, like a game of telephone, but I thought you had a right to know."

"Have you…?" Dean swallowed hard. "Have you heard anything about Sammy?"

There was a long silence on the other end of the line then Bobby spoke gruffly. "Nothing. I don't know if he… I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean flipped the phone closed and let it fall to the desk again, and then he did something he hadn't done since he was sixteen years old. He bowed over with his arms hugged around himself and he cried.

* * *

**So… Lots happening in that one. What did you think of Social Worker Dean? I can't tell you how strange it was to write him as a civilian at first. I soon got into it though. And the cards? I loved writing the cards. And… Yeah, that ending. Sorry about that. **

**There won't be an update until Monday at the earliest now as I am going to Asylum 14 this weekend. I will update as soon as I can when I get home. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	4. Chapter 3

**Thank you Jenjoremy for beta'ing. Also, thanks to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all their help.**

* * *

_**Chapter Three**_

The only sound in the room was the beep of the heart monitor and the whisper of breathing. Neither Ellen nor John had anything to say, least of all to each other. They just stared at the figure on the bed and hoped for a miracle.

It had started out as an ordinary day for Ellen before she got the call that changed everything. She'd been setting up the bar with Jo, having the same old argument they'd been having since the day Jo arrived home from college for spring break with her bags packed and no intention of returning. Ellen had tried everything then and each day since to persuade her to go back. She'd cajoled, begged and downright ordered her back, but nothing she said made a difference. Jo wanted to hunt, and if she couldn't do that, she was going to spend her life following her mother's footsteps—running a dead end bar for hunters. It was such a waste. Jo was so smart. She could make something of herself; she could get out of the life.

Her constant refrain was, "If Sam can do it, why can't I?"

The answer was, of course, that Ellen didn't _want_ either of them doing it. She wanted both her kids to be studying hard, getting out into the real world, putting their brains to good use, but there was no telling Sam to do anything. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and there was no arguing.

He'd once come close to leaving the life. When he was eighteen he'd come home one day with news that had him grinning from ear to ear. He'd been accepted to Stanford—"Stanford, Ellen, can you believe it?" He'd even gotten a scholarship to cover it all. Ellen had been so proud. Her brilliant boy was going to college, but then John had arrived and it had all gone to hell with just six words.

"I know what killed your mother."

That had been the end of Ellen's dreams for Sam. He had torn up the acceptance letter, shoved his belongings into a duffel bag, and followed his father out onto the road—not that he had ever really left it. From the age of twelve years, hunting had been a major part of his life. He'd taken on his first vengeful spirit at fourteen, and that had been the first of many. He'd come back to Ellen's on occasion for school and downtime, but most of the time he'd been on the hunt under his father's ever-watchful eye.

Now her boy was broken in a hospital bed, pale as the sheet that covered him, with that awful wound across his throat and blue tinged lips.

They'd stitched it closed, but they hadn't covered it. She wished they had. It was gruesome to look at. It would be hard enough to see the wound on a stranger, but this was _Sam_, and that made it so much harder to bear. She didn't even know how it had happened. As far as she knew, John and Sam had been on a tracking mission. No tracking had done this to him.

John hadn't said a word. He hadn't explained a thing on the phone or since she arrived. He'd just said Sam needed her and she had to come fast. She'd met the broken man in the waiting room and the nightmare had started. Sam had been in surgery at first, and they'd spent hours waiting to see him. She almost wished they hadn't let her when she saw him again.

The door eased open and a middle-aged man in navy scrubs entered. He had cropped dark hair and a grim expression.

"Doc," John said, speaking for the first time in forever. "How's he doing?"

Ellen thought she already knew the answer to that. How could he be anything but desperately ill?

"I'm afraid your son is very unwell," the doctor said. "Very unwell indeed. His injuries are catastrophic."

"But he's going to be okay," John stated.

"When Sam was attacked, his jugular vein was nicked. By itself, this injury wouldn't have been so… severe had we been able to treat it sooner. But the time between the injury and his arrival at the hospital was long enough for him to lose a massive amount of blood. That blood loss has done a great deal of damage. His major organs were denied blood flow for too long. Mr. Winchester, there's no easy way to say this, the damage is just too great."

Ellen found her voice at last. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Sam has already exceeded our expectations by living as long as he has."

"You're telling me my son is dying?" John asked in a dead voice.

The doctor nodded solemnly. "I am sorry, but yes. Sam cannot survive this level of damage."

"But... he's breathing!" Ellen said angrily. "He's breathing on his own. How can he be dying when he can do that?"

"His brain function is depleted but not absent," the doctor said. "He's breathing on his own and his heart is beating because the damage is not that great to those organs. His lungs, his liver and kidneys, his digestive organs, are dying. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I believe it is better that you understand the situation so you can do what needs to be done."

"What needs to be done?" John asked.

The doctor looked somber. "You need to say your goodbyes. If there is anyone else who needs to see him, you should call them now."

Ellen began to cry.

"Thank you for your help, Doctor," John said in a dull voice. "We'd like to be alone now."

"Of course. I will stay close if you have any other questions. I am truly sorry."

He slipped out of the room, leaving Ellen and John alone with Sam.

Ellen was still crying, and John laid a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away from him, desperate sadness eclipsed by anger. "You!" she hissed. "This is because of you!"

John nodded. "I know."

"You've killed him!"

"Believe me, I know.

Ellen didn't want his acceptance. She wanted his anger. She wanted to rant and rave at him, to have someone to vent her fury on. She wanted the fight.

John stepped around the bed and reached out a trembling hand. With the gentlest touch possible, he pushed Sam's hair back from his brow. Ellen was transfixed by the show of love. She had never seen this side of John before. His hand cupped Sam's pale cheek, his flushed skin standing out starkly against Sam's pallor. "Goodbye, son," he whispered.

The words swept over Ellen, and for the first time the situation became real to her. Sam was going to die. She felt a scream building in her chest. She denied it release. Sam didn't need to hear that.

John made for the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"There's something I need to do."

Ellen couldn't believe what he was saying. Sam needed him here. He needed his father to be beside him now more than ever. He needed family.

"Dean," she breathed and John turned back to face her. "We need to find Dean. He needs to say…" She couldn't finish her sentence.

"I'll get him," John said.

"You know where he is?"

John nodded slowly. "He's my son. I've always known."

* * *

An hour passed and Ellen was still alone with Sam. Nurses came in now and then to check him over, but they had no good news to impart. One kindly woman brought Ellen coffee that was now cooling on the locker beside the bed. Ellen was convinced that she would be sick if she tried to put anything in her stomach.

The only time she took her eyes from Sam was when she was trying to call John. He never answered. She wanted to know how close Dean was. Would he make it in time? She was almost afraid of seeing him again. He wasn't going to be the cocky teenager she'd last seen, a few months before Bill's death. He was a man now, and he was going to suffer heartbreak.

The fact John knew where he was all this time shouldn't have surprised her, but it did. How could he have known and not gone to him? She couldn't imagine being parted from Jo for any amount of time, especially if she knew where she was.

Jo… She had called a couple times but Ellen hadn't answered. She didn't want Jo coming here. Her last memory of Sam should be the beers they'd shared a few weeks ago, not this specter in the hospital bed with his slit throat. Perhaps it was unfair to Jo to deny her the chance to say goodbye, but Ellen didn't have long to think about her decision because at that moment something changed.

The beeping of the heart monitor, which had been steady until that point, was picking up pace. Ellen's own heart leapt into her throat.

"Not yet!" she moaned.

There was movement at the door and two nurses came in. Ellen leapt out of her chair and moved to the corner to allow them space to work, but they didn't jump into action as she expected. One pressed her fingers to Sam's throat, feeling his pulse, and the other silenced the machine.

"What are you doing?" Ellen asked. "Help him!"

The nurse who had brought her coffee looked at her with sympathetic eyes. "We can't. There's nothing that can be done now."

"He's not ready," Ellen said.

"He must be," she replied.

Ellen covered her mouth with her hand and sucked in a breath. Sam might be ready, but she wasn't.

The nurse who had checked Sam's pulse slipped out of the room.

"Come to him," the kindly nurse said. "Come talk to him. Help him go."

"I don't want to."

"No one ever does," she said sympathetically. "But sometimes we have to do the right thing for the people we love."

Ellen walked forwards on leaden feet and fell into the chair beside the bed. She picked up Sam's hand and clasped it in both of her own. His skin was cool, as if he was already gone. She rubbed at it, trying to warm it.

"Talk to him," the nurse prompted. "Help him."

Ellen couldn't. It _wasn't _time. Dean wasn't here yet.

The nurse left them. Without the heart monitor beeping, the room was eerily silent.

"Sam, don't give up yet," she begged. "Dean's coming. He's coming back! You're going to see him. You have to be here for that. Please don't go."

It was futile, she could tell. Sam was beyond her words. He was done. This magnificent boy who had saved so many lives and sacrificed so much was leaving her. She cupped his face in her hands, wanting to believe he could feel it, that he knew he wasn't alone.

She stood on shaky legs and bent, lowering her face to Sam's. She closed her eyes and a tear slipped onto Sam. She pressed her lips to his forehead just as she had when he was a child waking from a nightmare, calling for his brother.

"Okay, sweetie," she whispered. "It's okay now."

At that moment, Sam sucked in a huge breath. His eyes snapped open and roved the room, coming to rest on her face.

"Ellen?" he rasped.

She nodded. "I'm here."

"Where's dad?"

Ellen didn't know how to answer. She had a feeling, a sick feeling that they were never going to see John Winchester again.

* * *

Dean was cracking up.

There had been no news of Sam since that call, though John's death had now been confirmed through the hunter telegraph. When the life lost someone as proficient as him, people talked.

The fact that his father was dead kept catching him off guard at the strangest moments. He'd be in the shower, thinking of nothing, and John's face would flash through his mind. He'd be doing paperwork and he'd find his throat swelling shut and his eyes prickling.

Sam was harder. For Dean he was, and always would be now, a child. He would see his face on the kids he was meeting with. He'd once worried he would lose the details of Sam in the time they were apart, but now he found himself hearing Sam's voice when the kids were talking. Their stories became so much harder to bear when it was his brother telling them.

His distraction wasn't going unnoticed by either his colleagues or boss. Paperwork was being filed late and incomplete and he was missing meetings with them. The only times he wasn't screwing up was when he was with the kids. At the end of the second week, he'd been called into his boss's office. He was told in no uncertain terms that it was time for him to take a break. He was given a month sabbatical leave in which to get his shit together, and he knew where he needed to go.

He called ahead when he was an hour outside of town, and when he got to the farm Sonny was waiting for him on the front steps. Dean smiled at the sight of the man. He pulled the bike to a stop and climbed off, feeling the ache that two days on the road would give you.

Sonny didn't say anything at first. He didn't even stand. He just picked up a can of soda from the pack beside him and held it out. Dean took it and sat down beside him. It was a tradition for them now. Every seminal moment in his life had been celebrated and commiserated with like this.

"I'd say it's good to see you, but you look like hell," Sonny said.

Dean grunted in response and took a swig of his soda. He would have preferred beer but Sonny had to keep a clear head for the kids.

"What's happened, Dean?"

Dean braced himself to speak it aloud. "My dad's dead." He didn't look at Sonny but he could feel his eyes on him.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too," Dean said, staring out at the fields.

"What happened?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know for sure. Hunt gone sour I guess."

"A hunt," Sonny said in a musing voice.

"Yeah, one of those things you don't believe in," Dean said a little bitterly.

"I do. I didn't for a long time, but I don't imagine you'd lie to me now that you're grown. I'm not pretending I understand it all or that it doesn't scare the crap out of me, but I believe you now."

Dean looked at him askance and almost smiled. It had taken almost eleven years, but Sonny was finally on board with the truth.

"There's more, isn't there?" Sonny stared off into the distance, letting Dean take his time.

Dean nodded and drew a deep breath. "I think Sammy's gone, too." He heard Sonny gasp and he turned to face him. "I think my little brother's dead."

"Oh, Dean," he sighed. "I don't know what to say."

"I always believed," Dean said. "I never gave up hope that I'd find him, but now it looks like that's not going to happen, and I don't know how to feel about it other than guilty."

And that was it, the admission Dean had been hiding for weeks. Sam was gone and it was his fault.

"Why guilty?" Sonny asked mildly.

"Did I ever tell you the story of the fire that killed my mom?" Dean asked, and then continued because he already knew the answer; he had kept that to himself all these years. "I was four. I heard a noise and I woke up. I went into the hall and my dad was standing there with Sammy in his arms. He handed him to me and told me to take him outside. I did. I carried my little brother out of that burning building, and that basically set the path of my childhood. It was my father's first rule for me—take care of Sammy. I did my best, I really did, but in the end, it wasn't enough. If I hadn't screwed up, dad would never have left me, and I'd have been able to take care of Sam like I was supposed to."

"If one of your kids told you that story and tried to take blame for something they had no control over, what would you say to them?" Sonny asked.

Dean huffed a humorless laugh. "You already know the answer to that."

"I do, which makes me wonder why you feel you're at fault now."

"It's different, Sonny. It was my _job_."

"No, it was a responsibility put on a child who was just too damn young to have it."

"Maybe," Dean said. "Doesn't mean it's not my fault. Hell, I wasn't even there to see they got proper funerals."

"I'm sure someone else took care of it," Sonny said. "You told me once hunters took care of their own."

Dean nodded. "They would have had hunters' funerals. Their bodies would have been salted and burned." Which for all Dean knew was what they wanted. It wasn't what _he_ wanted though. He wanted them to have proper resting places. He wanted somewhere to go to remember them. It wasn't right that he was alone now with no place to go to say his goodbyes. But there wasn't. There was nothing left of them now. "That's the worst part."

"Really?" Sonny asked quietly.

"No," Dean admitted. "The worst part is that I wasn't _there_." His voice broke.

Sonny placed a hand on his shoulder and Dean bowed his head.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry I can't fix this for you, and I'm sorry I couldn't stop him then."

"Not your fault," Dean said in a choked voice.

"Not yours either."

Dean wanted to believe it, he wanted it so bad, but he couldn't. He wasn't ready to let go of the blame because he thought that when he did he was going to be letting go of his last connection to his brother.

* * *

Sam was drunk. That was nothing new to him, he had been trainee for Winchester and Son: Alcoholics at large for a while, but now he was always drunk, and it was starting to tell on him. His kidneys ached and he had a perpetual hangover. Things weren't good.

He had given himself a week to drown his feelings and then he was going to get back work, at least that was what he had told himself, but it had been three weeks now and he had no intentions of dragging himself out of the hole anytime soon.

Ellen called a few times a day, Jo called even more, but he ignored their calls and didn't listen to the voicemails they left. He couldn't bear to hear the voices of people he loved after what he'd done.

He was a murderer. He'd killed his dad.

He hadn't pulled a trigger, he hadn't thrown a knife, but he may as well have done so. It was because of him that John Winchester was dead, because he wasn't strong enough, wasn't fast enough to escape that blade in the hand of a demon.

It would have been better if he had done the deed directly. He would have made it a merciful kill instead of the painful, protracted affair John had suffered through.

Sam had walked out of the hospital within an hour of waking up, despite Ellen's and the doctor's protests. He had known, deep in his gut, that his father needed him, and lying around in a bed wasn't going to help anyone. In the end, it didn't matter. He'd been too late.

They'd used the GPS on John's phone to track him, and there the horror had begun. The coordinates were for a crossroads less than an hour outside town. Sam had known then what had happened, but he hadn't accepted it. He'd told himself that John was fine, that he'd not dealt away his life for Sam; he'd just dealt away the colt they'd fought so hard to get. He was wrong. John had given up both for him.

It looked as through John had been trying to get into the car for shelter when the hounds had come. Perhaps it wasn't for shelter. Perhaps he just wanted to be close to their rolling home when it happened. However it had gone down, John had been ripped apart within feet of the crossroads where he had made his deal.

Sam hadn't wept at the sight. Ellen had. She had cried over John's body, but Sam's eyes had remained dry. He had wrapped his father in the old army blanket from the trunk of the Impala and made his pyre in the small copse of trees beside the crossroads, using their wood for fuel.

They had stood together and watched John burn.

Sam's eyes had still been dry.

When it was over, Ellen had insisted that Sam go back to The Roadhouse with her. Sam had nodded in agreement, even though he had no intention of following through. It was easier to agree than to argue. He'd waited until she'd driven off, expecting him to follow, and then he'd turned and driven in the opposite direction. He'd gone on till he reached Washington, as far as he could get from Ellen and his old life without entering Canada. He'd rented a cabin outside Seattle, and there he had prepared to lose himself.

The days blurred together until he found himself sitting on the porch one afternoon holding his father's most valuable possession: his journal. He ran a finger over the smooth leather and felt the weight of it in his hands. He had toyed with the idea of opening it for days, hoping there would be something in there to comfort, but John had never used it for comfort. It was all about recording knowledge and fact.

Without thinking, Sam fumbled with the clasp then flipped it open. A lump formed in his throat as he tried to force himself to look down. Eventually, he gained the courage, and his eyes widened. He had expected no comfort from it, to see nothing new from the last time he'd checked something in it a few weeks before John's deal, but there was a new sheet clipped into the front where before there had been the first entry after Mary's death.

Heart in his throat, Sam read his father's last missive.

_Sammy,_

_If you've found this, it's worked out how I want, and you're saved. That's worth a life to me, son, never doubt it. I'm sorry I have to leave you, but that's just how it goes. At least you're here to finish what I started. Find the demon and make him pay for what he did to us. _

_I know there is so much more I should say but I don't have the time. There's something I need to do before it's too late for you._

_I love you son. I always loved you both,_

_Dad._

_P.S. You can find Dean at 97 Devon Street. Arlington, Nebraska. I'm sorry._

* * *

**So… John's gone, Dean's cracking up and Sammy's just lost. Good times to write, not so good for the characters though. I know you're probably impatient for Sam and Dean to be in the same room again, so rest assured it's coming soon. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	5. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all their help and support.**

* * *

_**Chapter Four**_

Dean spent three weeks at Sonny's. He mucked in on the farm, fetching, carrying, planting and painting wherever Sonny directed him. He immersed himself in the hard work, letting it fill his mind and wear down his body. It was like being a kid again, and that was a good feeling in a way. Things had never been simple for him, not even as a kid, but they were easier than they were now. At least then his family was still out there alive somewhere. He didn't have that comfort anymore.

On the last evening, Dean was working on the truck, tuning the engine, and Sonny was leaning against the side of the cab talking to him.

"You're going tomorrow," Sonny said.

Dean looked up. "How did you know?" He knew he couldn't stay forever. As tempting as the idea was, he had a duty to the kids on his caseload. He couldn't hide here, licking his wounds, when there were people who needed his help waiting for him.

"You've got that restless look again," Sonny said. "The one you used to have before you took off looking for your dad and brother back in the day."

"You knew!" Dean said incredulously. "Why didn't you ever stop me?"

"What good would that have done? You'd have gone anyway and it would have stopped you from confiding in me. You weren't really a kid, Dean, not even at sixteen. I knew you could take care of yourself and I knew you'd always come back when you didn't find them." He smiled wryly. "I know I never went to college, but I understand the way people's minds work, too. While I was giving you the freedom to work out the best thing for yourself, you were realizing you actually had roots here."

"That's pretty damn sneaky."

Sonny nodded. "Yeah. Maybe. Worked though. You did come back every time. I'm not saying I wouldn't rather you found them, especially now, but when you came back for the last time, it stuck, and look at you now. You've got this life you're living and these kids you help. You have an actual career."

Dean turned away and leaned against the front of the truck. "Yeah. I've got a career." What he didn't voice was the fact that his career was pretty much all he had now. He didn't have his family. He didn't have his brother.

Sonny seemed to hear the words he hadn't spoken. "You've got a lot, Dean, have had for years now. You've also got a whole life still ahead of you. Don't forget that."

Dean thought he knew what Sonny was saying. He'd been without his father and brother for this long and he'd made something of himself. Just because they were gone it didn't mean it was all over. It just felt like it was.

"I'll be leaving early," Dean said, changing the subject. "I want to get as far as I can tomorrow."

"The boys will miss you."

Dean laughed a little. "They'll miss having help with the chores."

"Exactly." Sonny slapped him on the back. "Now are you going to fix up my engine or not? I figure I best make use of my cheap mechanic while he's still here."

Dean grumbled but went back to work on the engine, feeling a little better than he had an hour ago for their conversation. He figured that was how it would be from now on—feeling a little better each day until he was himself again.

* * *

It did get better. It was never easy. Some days it was close to good, but it never felt right.

Sam and John had been gone for three months now, and Dean sometimes went a whole afternoon without thinking about them. He didn't hear Sam's voice anymore when the kids spoke. His father's face stayed at the back of his mind instead of flashing across it when he was least expecting it. He could focus on his job the way he had before, making a difference.

It was harder when he was home, because there was less for him to do to keep him distracted. He was thinking about returning to school. He'd got his bachelor's in college but he was thinking about going for his masters. It would take him a while to complete if he kept working, even with a reduced caseload, but the knowledge and experience it would give him could enable him to help even more people.

He was on his laptop, scrolling through options for study when his cell rang. It was Bobby. He'd been calling pretty regularly lately, but Dean's heart had stopped racing when the calls came through. He knew now it wasn't because Bobby had news, it was because he was checking in, making sure Dean was okay after everything. They never talked long, Bobby wasn't the most verbose of people on the phone, but the contact still pleased Dean. It reminded him there was still someone out there who had been with him from the very beginning who cared.

"Hey, Bobby," he said, kicking his feet back on the coffee table and picking up his beer from the floor beside him. "How's it going?"

"Things are good," Bobby said. There was something about his tone that was off. He was usually gruff to the point of caricature, but now his voice seemed filled with ill suppressed excitement. "Real good. Better than good. Dean, I've got news."

Dean's feet dropped from the table and he leaned forward in his seat, his muscles bunched and his head starting to buzz with the tension. "What's going on?"

He heard Bobby take a deep breath and then he said, "It's Sam. He's alive."

"What the…? How do you…? Bobby, talk!" he commanded.

"Okay, so I was looking up some lore for another hunter, guy named Mackey, he wanted to know about—"

"Skip to the good part!"

"Yeah. Sorry. Okay. So, I was working and I got a call. Some kid introduces himself as a hunter, says he got my number from a hunters' haunt in Nebraska, that he'd heard I was the go-to-guy for lore. Said he needed a book and wanted to know if I had it in my library."

"What makes you think it was Sam?" Dean asked, his heart in his throat.

"I'm getting to that part. So, I said I had what he needed, but I wasn't known for handing out my books to complete strangers, and then he says, clear as anything, 'Then let me introduce myself. I'm Sam Winchester.'"

Dean sank back against the couch cushions and wheezed out a breath. "My god."

"Yep," Bobby said happily.

A horrible thought occurred to Dean. "How can you be sure it was him? I mean, any hunter could say he's a Winchester to get you to hand over a book. You're not exactly known as the caring and sharing type."

"I _don't_ know," Bobby admitted, "which is why I told him he'd need to come pick the book up in person. We'll know Sam as soon as we see him."

"He's coming there?" Dean's voice was weak.

"He's due tomorrow sometime."

"I have to come."

"Damn right you do. Why'd you think I'm calling? You don't have the weekend shift, do you?"

"No," Dean said shakily. Not that it would have made a difference if he had. His job was the last thing on his mind at that moment. All his thoughts were filled with his kid brother. "I'll leave now. It'll take me a few hours, but I'll try to cut it down as much as I can."

"Drive safe not stupid," Bobby said. "He won't be here till tomorrow, and you wrapping yourself around a tree isn't going to speed him up."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said distractedly, already on his feet and searching for his keys. "I'll see you real soon, Bobby."

"I'll have a couple cold ones ready," Bobby replied.

Dean muttered a goodbye and flipped his phone closed. His eyes stung, and when he swiped a hand over his face, he found that it was wet. He shook his head jerkily and tried to summon calm. He pulled on his leather jacket, found his keys on the table, and headed out.

As he let the door slam shut behind him and threw his leg over the bike, he thought maybe he should have brought more out with him than his wallet, but he couldn't bring himself to go back inside and get clean clothes for the morning. He had only two thoughts in his mind.

Sam was alive.

He was _finally_ going to see his little brother again.

* * *

Bobby woke around dawn, as was usual for him when he wasn't pulling an all-nighter for some case or another, but Dean had already beaten him to the kitchen and coffee. He was sitting at the table, shit-eating grin in place and mug in hand.

"Did you sleep at all?" Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged. "Your couch is lumpy as hell and I'm not a kid anymore."

"You could have had a bed," Bobby countered grumpily. "I told ya, your old room is still up there." Bobby understood though. Dean hadn't slept in that room since he was sixteen, and then he'd been sharing it with his brother.

"I know," Dean said. "Sorry."

Bobby shook it off. "No worries. Don't suppose it was only the couch that was keeping you up anyway."

Dean huffed a short laugh. "Can you blame me? This is a big deal, Bobby."

Bobby smiled. "Yeah, it is." He opened the fridge and peered inside. "We've got leftover chili and beer. What do you want for breakfast?"

"You know, I think I'll skip it," Dean said with a grin. "Maybe when Sam gets here we can go out to eat or something."

"You really think he'll be up for that?" Bobby asked warily.

"Why wouldn't he?"

Bobby shook his head. He wasn't sure whether or not to bring the moment down. Dean was happier than Bobby had seen him in a very long time. He hadn't even been sporting a smile this big the day he graduated college. The chance of seeing his brother again had raised Dean's spirits in a way that made Bobby realize just how hard the last eleven years had been for him. Dean had been happy a lot of the time, and he'd made Bobby damn proud with what he'd made of his life, but he wasn't complete apart from his family. Part of that family had been lost forever now, but the other part was coming back now, was perhaps alreaqady approaching, and that put a smile on Dean's face like he hadn't since the day he opened his motel room door to a seventeen year old Dean who was expecting to see his family but faced disappointment instead.

He was worried though. If Sam was after a book on lore, he was still in the life, a hunter. Hunters were different. Dean was obviously expecting the reunion of a lifetime, but Sam might not be on the same page. He certainly wasn't expecting to be facing his brother when arrived. Bobby hadn't even considered that when he'd made the call to Dean the night before. He'd just been so damn happy to share the news. Now he was wondering whether he should have tested the waters before acting.

"Bobby?" Dean said, and Bobby realized he'd been lost in thought too long for Dean to not notice. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Bobby said quickly, "it's nothing."

"Yeah, I really doubt that."

Bobby sighed. "I was just thinking about Sam. He's going to be different, Dean."

"Yeah, obviously. Don't worry, Bobby, I'm not expecting a twelve-year-old kid to walk through that door. But he's still Sam. He's still my brother. Doesn't matter how long it's been, that's not going to change."

He looked so happy, so bright and alive, that Bobby couldn't bear to spoil it for him.

"You're right," he said bracingly. "That won't change."

* * *

It took another few hours of waiting before Sam arrived. It was just after eight when Bobby heard a sound he hadn't thought he would ever hear again: the rumble of the Impala's distinctive engine. It swept Bobby back through the years to the day John Winchester had arrived on his doorstep for the last time. When John left Dean in lockup, he left Sam at Bobby's. He hadn't told Bobby then what he had done, and Bobby assumed Dean was out with John on a hunt somewhere. At sixteen he was often playing backup for John on the less dangerous hunts—and sometimes the trickier ones, too.

It wasn't until a full month after he'd collected Sam that he returned. They sat at the very same table that they were sitting at now, and John had told Bobby what he had done. Perhaps he thought he would find understanding from Bobby for his choice; he hadn't got it. Bobby had listened to his blathering about how Dean was having a better life and Sam being with family for all of a few seconds, and then he had gotten up and walked to his shelf where his Remington twelve-gauge was. He'd cocked it and aimed it carefully at John's chest. Things blurred a little after that. John hadn't tried to defend himself; he'd just booked it out to his car and then roared off of Bobby's property. Bobby had never seen him again.

"Jesus," Dean breathed.

Bobby saw that his face was pale and his eyes faraway. Bobby was sure that Dean was also lost in his own memories. What was he remembering? His father? His brother? The many years he'd spent with that car as his only home?

"It's okay," Bobby said.

Dean nodded and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah. Yeah. It's all good." He smiled again.

There was a time in which Sam would have thrown open the side door that lead into Bobby's kitchen, chattering before he was even all the way in about everything he'd done since he'd seen Bobby last, but the knock, when it came, was on Bobby's little used front door.

Bobby glanced at Dean and saw he was still smiling, though now he also looked a little nervous. Bobby couldn't blame him. He felt nervous, too, as he straightened his cap and walked through the hall. He paused for a moment with his hand on the latch, and then, when there was another firm knock, he opened the door.

Sam was there.

Bobby hadn't been expecting a kid, but he also hadn't been expecting the giant of a man who now stood on his porch. His height was impressive and his muscles were thick. His features were discernible still as the child he had been, but there was hardness now where there had once been dimples. His eyes were guarded and his expression stony. He didn't look pissed exactly. It was more like he just didn't want to open himself up even with a smile.

Bobby took it all in within a moment before his eyes fell on the most dramatic change in Sam: the scar. It curled from an inch below his jaw on the left and swept around his neck, crossing his adam's apple, stopping on the other side of his throat. It was thick and red, months away from silvering out, if it ever did. How could anyone have survived an injury like that?

"Bobby Singer?" he asked.

Bobby felt a small pang of shock. Sure, it had been a long time since they'd seen each other, but Sam had knownhim for years before that, and Bobby hadn't exactly changed much in the years between except for his graying hair.

"We spoke on the phone," Sam went on. "I was looking for a copy of _The Key of Solomon_."

"Yeah, of course," Bobby said, stunned. "Come on in."

Sam stepped past him and then stopped in the hall. Bobby closed the door behind him and gestured for Sam to follow him into the kitchen. "I've got company," he said, walking in to the kitchen.

Dean was standing by the counter, still pale, but now his eyes were bright. Bobby moved to give Sam access and Dean a clear look at his brother. Sam glanced around the room as he entered, and Bobby wondered if he recognized the place, even though he didn't seem to recognize Bobby himself.

Dean sucked in a breath as he caught sight on him. "Damn, Sammy," he said in an awed tone, "you grew up big."

For a moment, a split-second, Bobby saw Sam's shock—his eyes widened and his mouth parted slightly. It was quickly gone and replaced by a blank mask that Bobby had seen John Winchester sport too many times to count. It was the face he wore on a hunt. It was as if he blocked everything out, every emotion and thought that wasn't directly needed for that instant, and focused only on what needed to be done.

Sam locked eyes on Dean and asked in a disinterested voice, "Do I know you?"

Dean looked stunned, and he didn't seem to be able to form words. He opened his mouth a couple times and then snapped it shut.

Sam turned his eyes to Bobby. "The book? Do you have it? It's kinda urgent."

Bobby nodded mutely and picked it up from the table he'd left it on, ready for Sam, and handed it over. Sam checked the spine, nodded his satisfaction, and turned for the hall again.

"Sam!" Dean said harshly. "What the hell?" He strode forward and grabbed Sam's arm.

In a move so fast it caught Bobby completely off guard, Sam twisted out of Dean's grip and shoved him away by the shoulders. Dean collided with the table and a mug toppled to the floor, smashing as it made contact. Dean looked stunned and hurt, though not physically; his pain was all emotional.

Sam looked him up and down, mask still in place, and said, "Don't try that again." He turned to Bobby and said, "I'll FedEx this back to you when I can." He strode from the room and then Bobby heard the front door slam.

"Dean!" Bobby called as Dean ran from the room.

Cursing to himself, he followed Dean out onto the porch in time to see the Impala wind away through the junkers, engine roaring. They watched until the car was out of sight and then Dean turned stunned eyes on Bobby.

"What the hell just happened?"

* * *

Dean stayed on the porch long after Sam had driven out of sight, just trying to wrap his mind around what had happened.

Sam had shoved him away. That had hurt, but not nearly so much as him asking, "Do I know you?"

It was _Sam_! How could he not know his own brother?

He felt a hand on his arm, pulling him around and leading him back into the house. He let himself be led. Independent movement seemed beyond him in that moment. They came to the kitchen and Bobby pushed him into a chair. His hands were trembling and he clasped them into fists.

Bobby bustled at the counter for a moment and then set a coffee down in front of him. Dean reached for it with relief, needing the jolt. He knew at the first sip that it had a belt of whiskey in it, but he didn't mind. If anything, he was grateful. It might even help.

Bobby sat opposite him, a mug of his own in his hands. "Do you want to talk?" he asked.

"He didn't know me?" Dean answered in a low voice. "How could he not know me?"

Bobby seemed to consider for a moment before he answered. "He knew you, Dean."

Dean turned startled eyes on him. "What?"

"I saw it. When he first caught sight of you, only for a moment, he let the mask slip, and I could tell he recognized you."

Dean wanted to believe it, needed to believe it even, but he was wary of false comfort. "You sure?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah. I saw it clear as anything."

"Then why would he lie to me? Sam could never lie. He sucked at it—too damn honest for his own good."

"He _could_ never lie. He's a hunter now, Dean. We lie for a living."

"But why is he lying now? To me?"

"Because…" Bobby sighed heavily. "I don't know."

"Now you're lying."

"I'm not, not really. I don't know for sure, Dean. I don't know Sam anymore. All I know is what I saw, and that is that he's not the kid we knew anymore. He's not even close. He's hard in a way I've only seen once before, and that was your daddy."

John _was_ hard, had been hard. He'd been hardened by his life. It hadn't always been that way. Dean remembered a time when he would come home from work and sweep Dean into his arms, acting like he'd spent the day waiting for that moment. He would carry him across the room and Dean would be nestled between him and his mother as they reunited after a day apart. His father had made him feel safe and loved every day like it was his mission in life. He had shared that mission between them both when Sam was born.

That had all changed after his mother's death. He was different. It hadn't been a gradual change either; it was as it Mary had taken all his softness with her. He had become a shadow of himself and Dean hadn't been able to understand. He still worshipped his father, but he wasn't the same anymore.

Could that be Sam now?

Dean shook his head jerkily. "No! He's not like dad. He can't be!"

Bobby shrugged. "I'm only saying what I saw. I don't like it either."

He trusted Bobby's judgment, though he didn't want to.

"Something happened," Bobby went on. "I don't just mean the years that have passed, or the scar, though that's almost gotta be part of it, I mean losing your dad. You know how bad that messed you up. Think of how it must have affected Sam. If they were together all this time, hunting, Sam would have been closer to him than anyone. Losing him like he did would have been a hell of a thing."

"You think it's just shock?" Dean asked hopefully. "This… hardness? You think he just needs time, like I did, to get through it?"

"No idea. Maybe. What do you think? You've got more knowledge and experience with this kind of stuff than I have. What would you say if it was one of your kids?"

"He's not though. He's a man now."

"Is it so different when it comes down to it?" Bobby asked. "Does grief really hit you any different depending on your age?"

Dean had dealt with grieving kids before, some who had lost their parents to death and others who had lost them to alcohol or drugs. They all reacted differently. Some shut down, some rebelled against everything, and others shared it all. They were all feeling it the same though.

He remembered the aching grief that had taken him when he'd first heard of John's and Sam's deaths, and that had been after eleven years separation. If Sam had been there from the beginning, it would wreck him even more. That made complete sense to him. He clung to it because the alternative was that this was just Sam now, this hardened man who had shoved his brother away and disregarded him as a stranger.

"There's something else," Bobby said heavily. "More than grief. There's years between you now, Dean, and we have no idea how that was explained to Sam. For all we know, he thinks you left him rather than the other way around."

Dean froze with his mug of coffee halfway to his mouth. "You think?"

"I think your daddy was a man who would want to make things easy on himself, and if that meant lying to a kid, he'd do it."

"Then what do I do?"

Bobby fixed him with a sympathetic gaze. "You wait and hope it's not the end. Maybe curiosity will bring him back, maybe love. You've just got to be patient while he processes what just happened. He might come back someday, and then you can tell him the truth."

"Wishing and hoping?" Dean asked scathingly. "That's the plan?"

"That's down to you. You can try to track him down if you like, or you can let him come to you. I know which I'd choose."

"And if he never comes back?" Dean asked quietly.

Bobby sighed. "I don't know."

* * *

**So… Before you come after me (or Sam) with torches and pitchforks for how that went, remember one thing — this is only chapter 4 of a 22-chapter story. I'll get them together again, but it's not all going to be tearful reunions and broments. Trust me, okay?**

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	6. Chapter 5

**Huge thanks to Jenjoremy for beta'ing and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for helping and advising. You ladies are the best.**

* * *

_**Chapter Five**_

Sam was usually good at keeping his thoughts occupied. If he didn't want to think about something, he didn't. Simple. It was an art he'd perfected at the age of twelve. He blocked everything out and concentrated on something else. Right now, it was driving. He kept the car in the very center of the lane and his speed exactly on the limit. Instead of letting muscle memory take over, he focused on the changes of gears. The sounds of the engine and the sight of the blacktop rolling under him were familiar and good. That was what he thought of. Until a face flashed across his vision.

Dean.

When he'd found that note in his father's journal, he'd gone through a plethora of emotions, but the one that had stuck with him, the one he wanted to embrace, was anger. Anger that John had kept tabs on Dean all these years. Anger that Dean was invading his life once again. Anger that John didn't know him well enough to understand that Sam would never use that address.

Sam had burned the note over the sink, gripping the paper between his fingers until the flames licked at his skin. The pain had felt good but the blisters that had formed after had pissed him off. For the week they had taken to heal, he had been reminded of his onetime brother. When they'd healed, Sam thought it was over, but that was until he had been forced to face the man again.

He'd not been oblivious to the irony of going to Bobby Singer for help, but he was apparently the man to go to when it came to lore, so Sam had made the trip. He'd expected maybe a few questions about the years since they'd last seen each other and perhaps some condolences for John. He hadn't expected to be brought face to face with his past so violently.

"_Damn, Sammy, you grew up big."_

What the hell was all that about? What did Dean think happened during the eleven years he'd been absent? Had Sam given Dean more than a passing thought for anything other than anger since he was eighteen, he would have thought of Dean as a man, not the cocky teenage he'd known. Maybe that was the thing. Dean hadn't given Sam a passing thought, so he'd been expecting the kid he'd left behind. But if that was true, why did Dean think he had the right to walk back into Sam's life now?

Whatever. He didn't care. He wasn't going to think about it.

He drove with his fingers white knuckling the steering wheel. The radio was silent as it always was these days. The tape in the deck was the Zeppelin album John had been listening to last time he'd been in the driver's seat—before everything had gone completely to hell. It wasn't sentimentality that stopped Sam from taking it out, it was pure disinterest. He had nothing he wanted to listen to, so he didn't bother to change it. There were a lot of things like that now—John's box of tapes under the seat, his leather jacket on the backseat, his cell in the glovebox. They were all things he'd never need again, things Sam just hadn't gotten around to putting away or trashing. At least that was what he told himself.

He was just passing through Sioux City when the gas gauge slipped into the red. Sighing to himself, Sam pulled in at a Gas-N-Sip to fuel up. The lot was empty and Sam's eyes roved the road. It was a hunter's habit that John had instilled into him from an early age. _"Be aware or be dead, son."_

When the tank was full he screwed on the cap, flipped up the license plate, and straightened. He went into the store and made his way over to the coffee machine. He'd driven through from Colorado to Sioux Falls—to Bobby Singer's—in the night, and though he didn't feel tired yet, he thought he would preempt it with caffeine. His cup filled, he made his way over to the register.

The clerk was reading a magazine, but he looked up grudgingly as Sam slapped his credit card down. He looked mildly annoyed for a moment, but annoyance was quickly replaced by shock as he took Sam in. Sam knew that it wasn't his height or his stony expression that was making the kid look goosed; it was the scar. It was always the scar. Waitresses, clerks, motel managers, strangers on the street, they all looked at Sam like that these days. They were all wondering how someone could live through an injury like that. Sometimes Sam wanted to tell them that no one could. He should have died. It was only intervention from a demon that stopped it from happening.

Sam hated his scar. It was a reminder of what he had done to his father.

"Pump three," Sam said, though it was obvious as the Impala was the only vehicle out there.

The clerk dragged his eyes from Sam and rang up the sale. It took no time to run the credit card and for Sam to sign the slip, but it was long enough for the clerk to glance up a couple more times to get a good look at him. Sam stared back defiantly. He wouldn't look away from this kid's curiosity. He held down his anger though. It wouldn't be good to lose it when he was under the scrutiny of the two CCTV cameras he'd tagged.

"_You gotta watch yourself, Sammy,"_ John Winchester whispered from his memories. _"It's damn hard to hunt when you're on the run from the cops."_

Sam nodded to himself and picked up his card and receipt.

"Have a nice day," the clerk called after him.

"Too late for that," Sam growled, letting the door swing shut behind him.

* * *

When he got to The Roadhouse, he parked up around the back of the building, noting the number of cars in the lot. It wasn't a surprise. Ellen kept a busy place from noon til late, and that was the way she liked it. _"Gotta keep the money rolling in."_

He heard the hum of voices and music as soon as he climbed out of the car, and it grew exponentially louder as he pushed open the bar door and went in. Ash was nowhere in sight. It was too early for him to rise. Ellen had probably rolled him off the pool table at opening and watched him stumble into his back room. Ellen was behind the bar, hand lying lazily over the pump as she pulled a beer for what looked like a tourist who had stumbled across the place—probably after taking a wrong turn.

She smiled up at Sam as she saw him, and intimated that she wanted to talk. She would have to wait.

Acquaintances hailed Sam as he passed and he nodded in return. There was no one he wanted to talk to, so he kept his expression stony as he worked his way across the room, making it clear he had no desire for company. He leaned over the bar and grabbed himself a glass and bottle of whiskey from the shelf then made his way over to a table in the corner.

He sat down at the table in measured movements, not thudding down as his mood demanded. _"You show nothing you don't want to show, Sammy, and only then when it serves a purpose."_

The first glass went down smooth, the second smoother, and the third he sipped, eyes scanning the room. A child was watching him from where it was nestled under its mother's arm. It was young, probably around five, and as Sam met its eye, it smiled shyly. Sam looked down. The last thing he wanted to do was engage it and have the kid chattering at him for the next hour.

Sam saw two men coming in through the door. He tagged them as a pair he'd seen around the place a few times but had never bothered to get the names of. They got two beers at the bar and looked around for a place to sit. Sam knew even before they started towards him that they were planning to interrupt his solitude, and he glared up at them, feeling satisfaction when they diverted their path back to the bar. He could feel Ellen's eyes on him, and he knew if he looked up she'd be giving him a reproachful look. He didn't care. He wasn't in the mood for company, least of all the company of strangers, especially company that, judging from their wide smiles and bright eyes, wouldn't know when to shut up.

He was just getting to work on his fourth glass when he saw them turn away from the bar and walk towards him. He glared again, but they weren't deterred this time. They plunked themselves into chairs and set their half-drunk beers on the table.

"Sam Winchester, right?" one asked then went on without giving Sam a chance to answer. "I'm Jeff and this is Dom."

Sam nodded a greeting without meeting their gazes. "Yeah."

"Heard a lot about you," Jeff went on.

"Is there something you need?" Sam asked pointedly.

"Actually, yeah," Dom said. He seemed a little less hopped up than his buddy. Sam thought he could stand him if given long enough, but he was reserving judgment on Jeff till he'd seen if he was just a lightweight with beer or was genuinely that aggravatingly cheery. "We heard from the lovely lady at the bar that you're the go-to guy for werewolves."

Sam nodded. "I've taken out a couple."

"At once if what we heard is right," Jeff said.

Sam nodded again. He had once taken out an atypical pair that had taken to hunting together at the full moon.

Jeff looked a little awed. "Well, we've tracked one, and we were thinking, since we've never taken one before, we could team up."

"Not much for teaming up," Sam replied.

"We heard that, too, but we also heard you'd be down for a hunt, and we'd sure appreciate your help."

Sam considered carefully. It was true he'd enjoy a hunt, but he didn't think he could stand to spend a night in their company.

"C'mon, man," Jeff said. "Think of it as a legacy thing. You'll teach us what we need to know and we'll be able to do it alone next time."

"It's not hard," Sam said. "You track it and kill it with a silver bullet to the heart." He took in their doubtful expressions and sighed. "Okay. I'm in. Full moon's not for another week, so—

"You know when the moons are just like that?" Dom asked.

"I'm a hunter," Sam stated. "Give me the details and I'll meet you there."

"Awesome," Jeff said. "It's Minnesota. Small town near the border called Luverne."

Dom rooted in a pocket and pulled out a pencil and scrap of paper. He scrawled for a moment then handed it to Sam. "Those are our numbers. Give us a call when you're in town and we'll hook up."

Sam pocketed the paper and drained the last of his whiskey. Without saying a word, he got to his feet and walked away.

"Strange guy," Dom muttered.

Sam smiled grimly. They had no idea.

* * *

Ellen saw Sam leaving his table and making for the back room and she sighed. She'd sent Jeff and Dom over in hopes that they might make Sam engage for once, but it looked like her plan had failed completely.

The longer this went on, the less she thought he was going to snap out of it.

He'd not always been like this. There had been a time, long years ago, in which he'd been happy, but that all changed when he and his father started hunting the demon that killed Mary Winchester. Before then he hadn't embraced the hunting life, but he soon had, and apparently a part of that was emulating John Winchester at every turn. The problem was that he was emulating a broken man. Leaving Dean behind had ruined John for the whole world but Sam. He became almost obsessed with the boy. His focus when not directly hunting was Sam. That kind of intensity was a lot for anyone to take, least of all a twelve-year-old boy. It had made them incredibly close, but Ellen sometimes wondered if it was good for them.

After the hunt for the demon started, Sam seemed to pull away from everything and everyone but John, Ellen and Jo, and they were his family. He'd stopped interacting with his few friends. There were no more cheerful nights in the bar shooting the breeze with other hunters. The only thing he wanted to talk about was hunting. He and John would take anything they could get, sometimes together and sometimes separated, as long as it was saving someone. Sam built a name for himself as a good hunter, and people went to him for help and advice. The more it happened the less he wanted to engage though, until most people learned not to try.

Then John had died, and the final nail in the coffin of the Sam she'd known had been hammered in. He'd disappeared for six weeks following, and when he'd come back he was harder than ever. He barely spoke to anyone and there was something in his eyes that she hated to see. It was almost like a part of him was gone, that light he'd had before.

When he'd woken up in the hospital, she'd been so happy, sure that she'd gotten her boy back. Little did she know that she'd lost him with John, as surely as if he'd died, too.

Jo came through the door and made straight for the bar. She leaned over and grabbed herself a bottle of beer—sometimes she was so like Sam it was hard to remember they weren't blood. She perched herself on a stool and took a swig of her beer. "Pretzels and nuts are in the trunk," she said by way of a greeting.

"Thanks, honey."

"It's good to have something _useful_ to do," Jo said pointedly.

Ellen rolled her eyes. "I'm not having this fight again, least of all in a bar full of hunters."

"Worried they'd come down on my side?" Jo was more determined about hunting than ever lately. Ellen was sick of the argument. Jo just didn't see that it was a surefire way to get herself killed.

"They wouldn't," Ellen said confidently. "No one wants to see a twenty-two year old taken out."

"I'm not stupid, Mom. I'd be careful."

Ellen shook her head. "Do me a favor, take the bar for a few minutes. I want to see Sam."

"He's back?" Jo asked, a smile lighting her features.

"Yeah, and from the looks of it he's in a hell of a mood, so let the whiskey work before you start in on him."

Jo looked concerned. "Whiskey again?"

Ellen nodded and Jo slipped off her stool, making for the hinged flap that separated the bar from the patrons. "Okay, you go see if you can talk some sense into him. I'll take care of things out here."

Ellen patted her cheek. "You're a good girl."

"Twenty-two, Mom. Not a little girl."

Ellen smiled as she walked away. Jo may be grown but she was still that girl in pigtails to her, which is why she'd only ever be hunting over Ellen's dead body.

* * *

Sam was sitting at the small table in the kitchen, running a whetstone along the blade of a slim silver switchblade. He looked up as Ellen entered and nodded.

"Hello to you, too," she said.

"Hello, Ellen," he said gruffly.

"That's more like it." She sat at the table opposite and stared at him until he looked up again.

He looked grimmer than ever, and she wondered what had happened to him now. There was a time in which he would have volunteered the information on his own, but she knew better now. She had to tread softly if she was going to get anything out of him at all. It was the only way to deal with Sam these days.

"Been on a hunt?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Had what looked like a vengeful spirit in Colorado, but it turned out to be a regular human psycho. I tipped off the police to where he was hogtied and then I booked it. It'll probably make the news."

"Good times," Ellen said.

"Yeah."

Ellen leaned back in her chair. "Jo's here, so brace yourself for _that _conversation again."

"Not happening," he said distractedly.

"I agree. The last thing I want is for her to be hunting, but she's determined." She smiled. "I guess she's seeing how happy hunting's making you these days and she wants a part of it."

"Don't start, Ellen," Sam grunted.

"I'm not starting," she said, holding her hands up. "I'm just saying."

"Then don't."

He sounded more than annoyed, so she redirected, hoping to elicit an honest conversation about what was making him look like this.

"What else has been happening?"

Sam fixed his gaze on the stone making its sweeps along the blade. "I got that book. I haven't had a chance to look through it yet, but I'm hoping it'll have something good in it."

"How was Bobby Singer?" she asked. She knew of Bobby through what she'd heard from John and the hunter grapevine, and his reputation was that of a man with an ornery attitude and liking for rotgut whiskey. He was the go-to man for lore though, and Ellen had heard good things about his abilities. He'd been taught by Rufus Turner, and there weren't many hunters better than him.

Sam shrugged. "Didn't see much of him. I just got the book and left."

There was more to it though, she could tell. Sam had never been a good liar before. She would catch him and Jo with crumbs around their mouths and the cookie jar on the table and while Jo would shamelessly deny having eaten a thing, Sam would crumple and admit to it all within a second. What gave him away now was the mask. Sam couldn't lie without shutting down, and the mask was the tool for that.

"Did something happen, sweetie?" She wondered if John had come up in conversation.

Sam looked up and the mask slipped a little. It only lasted a moment, but it was long enough for her to see something new in his eyes—unease. "He had company."

"Really? Who?"

Sam swallowed noisily. "Dean."

Ellen felt an electric charge jolt through her. "Your brother Dean?"

"Dean Winchester."

She didn't miss the message behind the clarification. Not his brother Dean now. Just Dean Winchester.

"How do you feel about that?" she asked.

"I feel like I don't want to talk about it."

That wasn't true though. He might not realize it, but he did want to talk. Even this new hardened Sam couldn't have a bomb like that dropped on him without needing to talk about it to someone. Ellen was burning with curiosity; she wanted to know about the kid she once knew and she wanted to know how it affected Sam to see him again.

"You sure?" she asked.

He nodded stiffly. "Nothing to talk about. I saw someone I used to know. That's all."

Ellen shook her head dolefully. She remembered the Sam who had stared up at his brother with unparalleled devotion when they were together. He'd hung onto his every word as if it was gospel. He'd come to Ellen a destroyed child with one plea on his lips: "I want Dean." Obviously that had changed. How could it not? But this finality to his tone was so wrong.

"Maybe it'd help," she said gently.

"No, Ellen!"

For the first time ever in Sam's presence, Ellen felt a chill of fear. He looked almost frightening with his eyes blazing like that. She knew her boy was different, but this was a side to him that she'd never seen before.

Sam dropped the stone and blade down onto the table and got to his feet. "I'm tired."

Ellen nodded and watched as he made his way out toward the bedrooms. She waited until he was out of sight and then she swiped at the tear that had been pooling in her eye. She loved Sam as much as she loved anyone, but she was aware now more than ever that the changes in him ran deeper than his lack of loquaciousness and bad temper.

He was almost dangerous now.

* * *

**So… We got a look at **_**this**_** story's Sam. What do you think? One of the things I've always loved in the show and in stories is Sam's ability to feel and empathize. Writing such a different version of him, one that I believe is still in character for canon — Think Mystery Spot — has been a hell of a trip. How is it to read?**

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	7. Chapter 6

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing. Also thanks to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help getting this one outlined and written.**

* * *

_**Chapter Six**_

Sam was sitting in the kitchen of Ellen's place, poring over the Key of Solomon, when Jo slid into the seat beside him and nudged him with her elbow.

"Hey."

Sam didn't raise his eyes from the book. "Busy, Jo."

"What're you reading?"

"A book."

She laughed, as if completely missing the fact that Sam wasn't in the mood for joking. "C'mon, Sam, talk to me."

Sam glanced up in time to see her slightly troubled expression morph into a smile. The laugh had been an act, as was the whole coming conversation likely to be.

"Eye contact," she said happily. "That's more like it."

"Did your mom send you in to bother me?"

"No, she sent me in to get dinner started. I just thought since we're both here and you've been doing your best to turn yourself into a hermit lately, we could talk. Call it an intervention."

"I'm not a hermit," Sam said impatiently. "I'm in the bar every night."

"Drinking yourself silly and scamming the tourists at pool."

"Got to get gas money somehow," Sam replied. "It's not my fault they suck."

"And the drinking?"

Sam slammed the book shut and fixed her with a glare. "I don't need an intervention. I need to be left the hell alone to do my job. I've got a hunt to get ready for."

She crossed her arms over her chest and her chin jutted out. She was spoiling for a fight, and Sam was pretty sure he knew what it was about.

"What's the hunt?"

"It's a no-way-in-hell hunt." He gave Jo a pointed look. "As in no way in hell am I taking you along."

"Did I ask? I just wanted to know what you were doing." She softened slightly. "You used to tell me all about your hunts, remember?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm not playing memory lane, Jo. Things have changed."

"I know what you're going through, Sam. I lost my dad, too. I know it hurts, but if you talk about it, it gets better."

"This isn't about my dad," Sam said.

"Sure it's not." Her face fell into lines of sadness. "I miss you, Sam. I know you've been through a lot and seeing Dean again has thrown you for a loop…"

"Seeing Dean has done nothing to me," Sam said in a low voice.

"Oh, really?" she scoffed. "I remember, Sam. I know what losing him did to you. I know how much it hurt. You forget I was there. My point is that you can't just block us out. We're your family, Sam, and we need you."

It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to tell her she wasn't family, that he had no family left now his father was gone, but he bit it back. Upsetting Jo would achieve nothing.

"I haven't gone anywhere," he said. "I'm still here."

She shook her head sadly. "I wish you were."

He got to his feet. "Count me out for dinner. There's stuff I need to do." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and strode out of the door to where he'd parked the Impala. He'd drive around for a while, long enough for Jo to get bored or the bar to get busy. Either was fine as long as it meant he was left the hell alone.

* * *

Sam had no desire to spend any more time in Jeff and Dom's company than absolutely necessary, but he needed to catch up on what they knew, which is how he found himself in a diner on Route 90, watching them demolish burgers while he sipped coffee.

He had tried to bring the conversation about to the hunt twice already, but they were content to discuss their pre-hunting lives instead, despite the fact he showed no interest in their stories.

"It was a vengeful spirit," Jeff said around a mouthful. "We'd bought an old farmhouse together, figuring it would be a good investment. Turned out it was haunted. Of course we had no idea. We thought the lights flickering was electrics and the scrabbling in the walls was rats. It wasn't until the china started flying at our heads that we figured something was up."

"But what could we do?" Dom took up the tale. "It's not like we could call Ghostbusters and get them to take care of it."

"What did you do?" Sam asked, only because it was obvious they were waiting for him to ask.

"Well, first off we got on the web and started looking around for information. We found this forum on a site called Hell Hounds Lair. The people on the site seemed to think it was the real deal and they'd actually taken on a ghost before."

Sam coughed. "Hell Hounds Lair?"

"Yeah, wacky name, and even wackier guys. But they sounded like they knew what they were talking about. They said they'd come up against something called a Tippa. Or was it Tuppa?"

"Tulpa?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, that was it. Anyway, they took care of it."

Sam shook his head. Those two losers had taken care of nothing. They hadn't even been able to update their website on time. Sam and John had teamed up for that hunt, and even they'd not 'taken care' of it properly. All they'd been able to do was burn down the shack the creature was tethered to. It wasn't one of Sam's proudest hunts because he knew it still wasn't really over.

"So what did they tell you to do?" Sam asked.

"Well… not a lot really. It was just good to have someone believe us, you know? But the conversations we were having in the forums about the problem caught the eye of a hunting pair called Walt and Roy."

Sam nodded. "I know them."

"They came and took care of it, even let us tag along for the salting and burning. It was some old dude that had been buried on the land; seemed he was pissed about having his home taken over. Well, we saw that ghost go up in flames and we knew we had to be a part of it. Those guys saved our lives, and we wanted to take care of other people. We hung up our grease monkey caps and joined up with Walt and Roy for a while, picking up what they knew, and then we started taking our own cases." His chest puffed out proudly. "We've done a chupacabra, a vampire and two more vengeful spirits since. We're thinking of making spirits our specialty."

"Probably a good idea," Sam said dryly. That was the easiest type of hunt around and the least likely to get their inexperienced asses killed.

"What about you?" Jeff asked. "What's your specialty?"

"Hunting."

"No, really, man. Everyone's gotta have one. I bet it's werewolves."

Sam shook his head. "I take whatever case comes along. I don't pick and choose."

Dom looked awkward. "That makes sense. Spread your skills."

Jeff swallowed the last of his burger noisily and said, "So what's your story? How did you get into the hunting life?"

"Pretty much born to it."

"No question," Dom said. "Everything we've heard about you says you're a natural."

"No, I mean I was _born _to it," Sam said. "My dad became a hunger when I was six months old. Me and my brother were raised in the life. Mom was killed by a demon, and it set my dad off on the path. It's the only life I've ever had."

"Cool, you got a brother," Jeff said. "Do you team up? A brother hunting duo? That'd be cool."

"No. My brother's gone."

"What happened?" Jeff asked.

Sam shook his head curtly. He wasn't having _that _conversation. He'd already said too much. He didn't even know why he'd said any of it. "Tell me about the werewolf," he said instead.

Jeff opened his mouth, possibly to push the point, but Dom elbowed him in the ribs and he stayed silent. "Okay, well here's what we know. There's a river passing through a park on the edge of town that young couples like to hook up by. So far there have been three deaths—a couple who were killed together and a young guy whose girlfriend got away by getting herself into the car and driving. We spoke to her and, though she thinks she imagined the whole thing, what she saw sounds like a werewolf."

For what seemed like a couple of inept newbie's, they'd done their homework. Sam was grudgingly impressed.

"Okay," he said. "We'll gear up and go to the park in time for nightfall. You've got silver, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Jeff said proudly. "We got some knives just for the occasion."

"Knives?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "You do realize you have to get it through the heart with silver to kill it, right?"

"How else are we going to do it?" Dom asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. These jackasses were going to get themselves killed. "Silver bullets. I'll hook you up with a guy who casts them for hunters. They cost, but they're worth it. In the meantime, I've got a spare gun and clip loaded with silver."

"You keep spares?" Jeff asked. "Man, you are prepared."

Sam swigged down the last of his coffee and said, "It was my partner's. Not like he's going to be using it anymore."

"Why not?" Jeff asked as Dom shifted uncomfortably.

"Because he's dead," Sam said brutally. "That's how hunting always ends eventually." He saw their stunned expressions. "You've got to understand that if you're really joining the life. One way or another, hunting means death." Even to his own ears there was no inflection to Sam's tone. He sounded like _he_ was dead. Perhaps he was.

* * *

Sam had a bad feeling about the hunt, a feeling that grew stronger as the day wore on.

He was more than aware that Jeff and Dom were the cause of the bad feeling. They were enthusiastic as all hell but basically children. Hoping to stack the odds in their favor, he took them out to a state park a short drive out of town and set out to teach them some basic combat moves in case they did get close enough to the wolf to use their new knives. Thankfully, they were already proficient with guns, being regular visitors to their local range.

Dom was a fast learner, focused and driven, but Jeff was… excitable. Between shouts of, "This is great" as he was thrown to the ground once again, and "Sam, we really appreciate this," as he was hauled to his feet, he babbled about how good it felt to be on the hunt again.

Sam knew there and then that they were doomed.

Hunting wasn't supposed to feel good. Sure, there was satisfaction to be had in the knowledge that you were saving lives. But it didn't feel _good_. It was work, pain, injury and death. Hunting was hard and that was what it made you. You had to be that way to live. Jeff was as hard as the average marshmallow, and from Dom's indulgent smiles, Sam guessed he wasn't much better. He knew he was going to have to pull a miracle out of his ass to keep them both alive tonight and then find a way to convince them to put those grease monkey hats back on, They would be better off eating burgers, glugging coffee, and working on their future heart attacks. He hoped that getting the piss scared out of them on this hunt might do the trick.

When the afternoon started to fade, he called a halt to the sparring sessions and arranged to meet them back at the park they were laying their trap in.

He'd not eaten at lunch as he hadn't wanted to be with them long enough to share a meal, so he stopped by the diner again and picked up a sandwich. He ate in the car, not really tasting the food, just chewing and swallowing methodically, fueling his body. As he ate, he thought of Jeff and Dom. There was only one way he was going to get through this hunt with them both intact and that was if they weren't a part of it, but they'd not been receptive to that idea when he'd broached it after the first hour's training, so he had to think of something else.

John Winchester's memory whispered to him. _"Think around the corner, son. You can't get through the door so what do you do next? That's right, you go through a window."_

Sam nodded to himself, not even aware that he was doing it, and smiled grimly. He couldn't make them sit out of the hunt but he could sure as hell keep them out of the line of fire.

By the time he they arrived in the abandoned parking lot, he had formulated a plan to save their incompetent asses.

They were leaning against their car—a nicely restored Mustang—and talking. They both visibly brightened when Sam pulled up beside them and they straightened, trying and failing to look serious.

He opened the trunk and propped up the false base with a sawn-off, revealing his wealth of weapons.

"Holy… wow," Jeff breathed. "Where did you get all that?"

"Lifetime's worth of collecting." Sam picked up his father's Taurus and weighed it in his hand for a moment. "Which of you is the best shot?" he asked.

"Dom," Jeff said quickly. "He was top of our league before we joined the life."

Sam nodded and handed the gun to Dom. He took it, looking somber, and then ejected the clip, checked the rounds and slid it back into place with smooth movements. Sam was satisfied.

"Okay," he said, shading his eyes and looking up at the sky. "It's coming on dark, so we need to get into place. I'm taking point down by the river, and you two are staying in the car."

"Won't that make it hard for Dom to shoot?" Jeff asked.

Sam restrained the urge to roll his eyes. "That's why I'm taking point. The wolf has gone for couples parking. You two are playing the horny teens this evening. If and when it comes, I'll take the shot. If I miss, Dom's backup."

"What am I going to do?" Jeff asked.

Sam shrugged. "Watch, I guess."

Jeff looked annoyed for the first time. "But how's that helping anyone?"

"We came to Sam for help," Dom reminded him. "He's showing us how to kill a werewolf so next time we come up against one, we'll be able to take care of it."

Jeff nodded and looked instantly apologetic. "Yeah. Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry, Sam. I just wanted to be a bigger part of it." He held out a hand to shake.

Sam turned away and slammed the trunk closed. "You two get in the car. Dom, don't get out until you're sure of what you're seeing. Jeff, just don't get out."

He didn't look to see their reactions; he was busy checking his own clip and then making his way down to where heavy boulders made up the bank of the river. He could hide behind them well enough and they'd give him good cover to take his shot.

* * *

Darkness fell and Sam remained silent and still, his mind empty of everything but the sounds of the night. It was second nature for him to shut down like this now but it hadn't always been. He remembered how he'd struggled to achieve his father's Zen-like state of mind when in the moment. It had taken long years of practice and a couple of near misses for him to get it. Jeff and Dom didn't have it. He could hear the creak of seats and the occasional laugh coming from the car. What they were finding to laugh about Sam had no idea. It just further confirmed to him that they were not cut out for hunting.

Sam stiffened suddenly as he heard the sound of feet pounding the ground. He lowered himself slightly and clicked the safety off the gun. The sound was coming closer and he edged around the boulders and crept towards the car. Jeff and Dom had been talking but they stopped now and Sam could see their outlines shifting through the fogged glass of the windshield. He pressed a finger to his lips as he walked around the edge of the car, searching for a glimpse of the wolf.

He heard the car door click as someone pulled on the handle and he turned to tell them to get back inside, but as he did, he felt something collide hard with his back, knocking him forward.

Someone shouted his name and he heard the car doors flying open.

"Get in the damn car!" he shouted, scrabbling to his feet, gun still gripped tight in his hand.

There was a cry of pain, a gunshot and then a growl. Sam spun on his heel in time to see Jeff fall to the floor. The wolf was running away toward the trees. Sam didn't even hesitate. Jeff was hurt, but Dom was there; there was no one going after the wolf but him. He fell into a sprint after it, gun pointed in front of him.

The trees grew close together, and he was forced to slow slightly to duck and weave between them. The wolf moved faster, and Sam quickly lost sight of it. He forced himself on, ignoring the branches that slapped against his face and body. He jumped a log and fell into his pace again. His heart was calm and his breaths steady, despite his exertion. His body was made for this. He was a weapon.

He was almost through a small clearing when he heard a quiet growl. The wolf was there. He froze and allowed his senses to reach out for it. His gaze rose to the trees in time to see a pair of yellow eyes looking back at him. He made the shot, but the wolf was already in motion. It threw itself from the tree, coming towards Sam. He turned himself quickly, presenting his back for the wolf to attack rather than his front with its vulnerable organs.

There was a lancing pain across his shoulder blades, as if someone had poured gasoline in a streak over him and lit a match. He pushed away the pain, but allowed himself to be knocked to the floor as if he was gravely injured. He rolled onto his side, groaning, and looked around. The wolf wasn't running now. It was standing over him, panting. Sam aimed and took a shot at the wolf's knee. It hit and the wolf snarled with pain as its leg gave way.

Sam got to his feet quickly. The wolf was kneeling, one hand clasped to its bloody leg and its yellow eyes fixed on Sam with hatred. Sam felt nothing in return. There was no hatred or anger. There wasn't even any pain now. He had reached that place his father had told him of, the place where nothing mattered but the hunt. He aimed the gun carefully and half breathed out, and then pulled the trigger. The wolf fell back with a bloody hole in its chest.

Sam bent and checked the throat for a pulse, but there was none. His bullet had done its work. The eyes were open but no longer yellow and the parted lips revealed white, even teeth. It had been a young woman, probably only in her early twenties, beautiful, with long brown hair that fanned around her head now. Sam noticed none of it. Satisfied she was dead, he straightened and started jogging back toward the car park.

Dom was kneeling on the ground with Jeff's head in his lap. Jeff was a stark shade of white in the moonlight. There was a wound on his shoulder and blood had dripped down to the ground below him. His eyes were closed and his breaths were shallow.

"Sam! Thank God!" Dom said quickly. "He's really hurt. I can't get cell reception. You have get help. We need an ambulance."

Sam bent and pulled the torn fabric back from the wound to get a good look at it. It was a bite, there was no question. Sam could see the teeth marks. He straightened and sighed.

"Sam!" Dom said desperately. "Help me!"

"I'm sorry," Sam said heavily, raising his gun.

Dom looked at him as if he was mad. "What the hell are you doing? Put that down. Get help!"

"He's been bitten," Sam said. "We've got no choice. He'll turn."

"No!" Don gasped. "You can't." He moved Jeff's head to rest on the dirt and jumped to his feet. He stepped in front of Sam so the gun was pointed at his chest instead. Sam didn't lower it.

"He's a werewolf now," Sam said steadily. "He cannot be allowed to live."

"He won't hurt anyone," Dom said. "I'll take care of him."

"You'll fail. He'll kill. He won't be able to control himself. This is the most merciful thing we can do for him."

"You're not killing him!" Don shouted, all signs of the amiable man Sam had known before gone. He was furious now and dangerous.

"I'm sorry," Sam said again as he shoved Dom to the side, knocking him to the ground. "I didn't want it to end like this."

Dom was scrabbling to his feet, but he was too slow. Sam aimed the gun carefully at Jeff's heart and pulled the trigger. Jeff jerked as the bullet met its mark and then stilled. Dom howled and dropped down beside his friend, patting his cheek and speaking useless words.

Sam turned his back on them and walked away. When he got to the Impala he stopped with his hand on the door. "Tell the cops whatever you can think up, but know this, if you mention me or what really happened here, I will come back for you."

"You're a murderer," Dom spat.

"Maybe," Sam said. "I'm definitely dangerous. Don't forget that."

He climbed into the car and turned the engine over. As he pulled out of the parking lot, his headlights flashed across the scene of Dom cradling his friend's dead body, and he swallowed hard.

He hadn't wanted it to end like that.

He was almost out of town when the calm fell away and he realized the reality of his situation. His back was slick with blood and there was no way he was going to be able to stitch himself up. He'd learned the hard way not to mess with blood loss, so he knew he needed help. He couldn't go to the hospital after what he'd just done—there was no knowing what they would make of Jeff's bite mark in the morgue or if they would be on the lookout for other suspicious wounds. He was three hours out of the Roadhouse and there was no one based close that he knew to get help from.

No one except…

Sam groaned as he directed his path to Sioux Falls.

* * *

**So… That happened. I kinda fell in love with Jeff. He was innocent and sweet and soft and everything Sam can't be now, and then I went and killed him. It had to happen though. Not my fault. Honest. **

**Until next time…**

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	8. Chapter 7

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the awesome beta job. Thanks also to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help and support.**

* * *

_**Chapter Seven**_

It was one of the rare times when Bobby was actually sleeping in the early hours of the morning. He wasn't researching something or running phones for another hunter. He was actually behaving like a regular human being, until someone started hammering on his back door.

Grumbling loudly, he threw back the bedclothes and climbed out of bed. He grabbed his ratty bathrobe from the back of the door and pulled it on as he made his noisy way out of the room and down the stairs. Every footfall was a protest to whoever had decided to wake him in the middle of the night.

"This better damn be worth it," he grumbled.

He yanked open the back door and then started at what he saw. Sam Winchester was standing on his back porch, pale face standing out starkly in the light streaming from the kitchen and sheened with sweat.

"Came to return your book," he said lazily, then folded forward as his legs gave way beneath him, revealing a large blood stain on the back of his ragged shirt.

Bobby got under him in time to hold him at least partially upright. He huffed under his weight. "Not yet, Sam," he said. "You got to get to the couch before you can pass out on me. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam drawled. Bobby could feel him trying to get his legs under him again and he supported him as he did. When Sam was standing, albeit it listing to the side, Bobby pulled an arm over his shoulders to hold him up. They made slow progress through the kitchen and into the library, Sam swaying like a drunk against Bobby. They reached the couch and Sam dropped down then folded over with his head between his knees.

"You gonna pass out on me?" Bobby asked.

"Probably."

Bobby sighed. "Lay yourself down and let me see the damage."

Sam didn't obey. He straightened up and began unbuttoning his shirt. Bobby slapped his hands away and picked up a pair of scissors from the desk. "Don't bother," he said. "The shirt's ruined anyway. We'll just cut it off."

Sam's hands fell back into his lap limply and he bowed his head again. Bobby cut along the back of the shirt and pushed it gently down over Sam's shoulders, revealing his wound. It stretched from one shoulder blade to the other, a deep jagged line in the flesh. It was still trickling blood, but the flow that had soaked through Sam's shirt had ceased.

The wound was bad enough, but even worse were the other scars around it. Though his skin was sheened with blood and sweat, they were obvious as they pitted and ridged the skin. There were so many of them. In places it looked like Sam's skin had been put through a cheese grater. There was also a puckered scar on his side that looked like a bullet wound.

"Damn, boy," Bobby breathed. "What happened?"

"Werewolf," Sam said lazily.

Bobby snapped out of his horror filled daze and straightened. Sam's voice was slurring which meant nothing good. Hard as he might be, it wouldn't stop a body from going into shock with this kind of blood loss.

"I'm going to need to stitch this," he said.

"Would do it myself but I can't reach," Sam replied.

Bobby had stitched his own wounds more than once, but hearing Sam say it—Sam whom he had last known as a happy twelve year old with the world at his feet—made his heart sink. As if he needed further proof that Sam was a true hunter now, there it was.

"I'll be right back." He went to the kitchen and rooted under the sink for his first aid kit. He took a deep breath, pushed down his feeling of sadness and worry, and went back to Sam. "You want to lie down?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah. I'll get blood on your couch. I figure after you held onto it all these years you might want to keep it a little longer."

It was true Bobby had the couch a long time, since before he ever met a Winchester in fact, and it wasn't in the best condition anymore, but Bobby didn't believe Sam was commenting on its obvious age. He was sure it was because he remembered the place he'd once spent hours sitting and talking his head off while Bobby was trying to work.

"You remember the couch but not me," Bobby said.

Sam shook his head slowly without looking up. "No. It just looked like you've probably had it a while."

"You're a damn liar," Bobby growled.

"You gonna stitch me up or not?" Sam asked. "'Cause if not, I'll have to get out of here. I'm a few hours from The Roadhouse and I don't want to bleed to death again. That was no fun."

Stowing yet another of the many questions he had for Sam, Bobby set out his kit and threaded a needle. "Want lidocaine?" he asked, knowing the answer already.

"No."

Bobby cleansed the wound as gently as he could manage and then pulled the skin together at the far right of the wound and set to work. He expected Sam to at least moan as he pushed the needle through his skin, drawing the flaps together, but he remained silent and almost perfectly still, barely flinching, as if this was such a regular occurrence, it didn't even register anymore. It probably didn't. Sam had obviously been hurt worse. Bobby wondered about the scar on his neck again. What had happened to him?

The wound didn't like being manipulated. The clots that had held the blood at bay were being broken and it began to bleed again. Bobby had to keep swiping it away with a cloth to give himself a clear view to work.

"I guess you couldn't go to a hospital," he said. "They might ask where you met the mountain lion."

"No. I can lie my way out of most things; it's just that I had to put a man down tonight after he was bitten and I figured they may have awkward questions for me if they connected the dots."

That Sam could lie his way out of most things was not a shock to Bobby. He'd done his best to lie to him and Dean last time he'd been here. What did shock him was the fact that Sam had killed a man today and he said it as if commenting on the color of Bobby's walls.

"A hunter?" Bobby asked, wondering which of his friends had died now. Death was something you came to expect in the life, but it was never easy.

"A wannabe hunter," Sam said. "He was just starting out. Tried to keep the damn fool out of it, told him to just stay in the car, but he didn't listen." For the first time there was an inflection of emotion in Sam's tone, but Bobby couldn't tell if it was sadness, regret or just annoyance that whoever it was hadn't listened to him.

What Bobby could see of Sam's skin under the blood was growing paler by the time he reached the middle of the wound, and Bobby was starting to worry Sam was going face plant again.

"You're mighty pale," Bobby said. "How're you feeling?"

"I'll last it out," Sam replied in a low voice.

Bobby nodded and got back to work. By the time he was tying the last stitch, Sam's breaths were coming in pants that Bobby was sure had nothing to do with pain. Shock was setting in. He snipped the thread, cleaned up the area and then laid a thick layer of gauze over the wound, taping it in place.

"All done," he said.

"Thanks," Sam muttered. "Mind if I sit for a minute?"

"I'd prefer it if you lay," Bobby said. "You sure as hell look like you're about to drop and I don't want to spend the rest of the day stepping over you."

Sam laughed softly. "I'll be okay."

"Sure you will. And I'll be made queen at the prom on Saturday." He shoved Sam's shoulder so he fell sideways against the couch cushions. "Just… stop for a minute and let your body get itself together. I'll get you some juice."

Bobby stomped into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. There was a carton of orange in the door and he poured a large glass then set it down on the counter so he could search the cupboards for the box of cookies he was sure he had somewhere. Some Girl Scout had come selling them around Christmas and he hadn't had the heart to send her away. He could handle big-ass monsters and demons, but faced with the trembling lip of a little girl, he was toast.

He found them and carried them back into the library. "I got you some Thin Mints," he said, checking the box. "Hope you're…" Sam was plain passed out, half bowed over the arm of the couch. "Balls!"

He set down the glass and box of cookies on a table and just stared at Sam for a moment. He looked so different asleep. The hard lines of his face were softened and he was easily recognizable as the child he had once been.

Bobby sighed and reached for Sam's shoulder, planning to move him so he was a little more comfortable, but as soon as his fingers touched Sam's skin, he jerked awake and shoved Bobby's hands away. "No!"

"Easy, boy," Bobby said, holding his hands up in front of him. "I was just trying to help."

Sam drew a deep breath and nodded. "I can do it."

"Now that you're awake you can, yeah," Bobby said. "I got you some juice and cookies. You need the fluid and the sugar."

Sam didn't answer. He just shifted himself along the couch and then flopped to the side again, his head resting on the arm. He took several smalls sips of juice and nibbled on a cookie but placed both back on the table unfinished. He didn't close his eyes though; he kept his gaze fixed on Bobby.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Bobby said sadly. "You can sleep."

Sam's eyes narrowed and then he nodded slightly. His eyes fell closed and soon after his breaths fell into soft sighs.

"What the hell happened to you?" Bobby said softly, not expecting an answer.

"I told ya. Werewolf."

"That's not what I was talking about."

Sam didn't speak again, so Bobby sat down on at the desk. He was in for a sleepless rest of the night. He didn't want to give Sam a chance to escape without him noticing. He had a list of questions a mile long, and he was going to get some answers when Sam was awake again.

Then another question occurred to him and he stiffened. What the hell was he supposed to do about Dean?

His instant reaction was to call him and tell him Sam was back, but he knew better than to act so rashly for something like this. Their last meeting hadn't exactly gone well, and Bobby didn't think Dean could take another one like that. He wasn't like Sam—he wasn't hard.

He would wait and see how Sam was when he woke up. If Bobby could get some of his questions answered, maybe he'd call Dean. If not… well, there was no reason to upset him more than he had already been by Sam's reappearance.

* * *

Bobby was reading at the desk when Sam woke around six in the morning. It wasn't a gradual return to wakefulness. One minute he was fast asleep, open and unguarded, the next he was wide awake and closed off again. He eased himself upright and hissed between his teeth.

"There are some pretty good pills in that kit," Bobby said. "Help yourself."

Sam shook his head. "I don't like having my head clouded. It'll be okay in a few minutes."

"Sure," Bobby said sardonically. "Gore marks like that only take a few hours to heal."

Sam scowled up at him and Bobby stared right back. He wasn't going to be intimidated. He had a feeling that was how Sam got through his days now: intimidating people into leaving him alone. It wasn't going to work this time. He'd been woken in the middle of the night by the kid bleeding out on his doorstep. He'd sewn him up. He was owed some answers.

"What happened to you?" he asked yet again.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Haven't we had that conversation already?"

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. "No, we haven't. You told me you went after a werewolf—"

"Which is what _happened_."

"—but I want to know about what happened before that. How did you end up like a… like this?" He gestured up and down Sam.

"A hunter? Thought that would be pretty obvious to you. I grew up and joined the life. That's all."

"No, that's not nearly all. I want the full story. You're different, Sam, a whole different person to the one I knew."

"I was twelve," Sam said scathingly. "People change. Are you the same person you were at twelve?"

"You're not answering my question. What happened that changed you so much?"

"Nothing. Everything. Life. Take your pick."

Bobby sighed. "Okay. Let's go back a step. What happened after your dad took you from here when you _were_ twelve."

"Can't remember."

"Dammit, boy! Stop lying to me!"

Color flushed Sam's face and for a moment Bobby thought he was going to attack him. He braced himself, but Sam remained sitting, though his hands were fisted. "We're not doing this, Bobby. It was a long time ago. Let it lie."

"I can't."

"Why not?" There was something in Sam's tone, confusion maybe, as if he really didn't understand why Bobby couldn't let this go.

"Because Dean needs to know."

Sam stiffened and he spoke in a low, dangerous voice. "Did you tell him I'm here?"

"No, not yet."

"Don't," Sam said in that same low voice.

"Why?" Bobby asked. "You afraid to see him again? Think maybe doing that'll make you feel something again like you did last time? Something like _he_ felt?"

Sam scoffed. "I'm sure he felt plenty."

"He did, and none of it was good. When you made your dramatic exit last time, I was left with a devastated man to deal with. After all that time, he finally found you again, and you walked away from him."

Sam's jaw tightened. "He didn't _find_ me. That suggests something lost, not something willingly left behind."

Bobby sucked in a breath. "You've got no idea, have you? You don't know what happened. John lied to you."

Sam shook his head. "Did you ever consider that maybe _you_ were the one who was lied to? I know what happened then. I remember."

"I don't think you do. Hang on a minute. There's something I need to show you."

"I don't need to see anything," Sam said, starting to get to his feet.

"Shut up, sit down, eat some cookies and finish your juice before you pass out on me again."

Unexpectedly, Sam obeyed. Perhaps because he knew without the sugar he was going to pass out on his way to the door. Or perhaps Bobby's commanding tone had gotten to him like it used to. Bobby was betting on the first option.

Bobby went to the shelves above the desk and pulled a dusty envelope free from between two books. He shook it off and handed it to Sam. "Look at them."

Sam sighed but tore it open and tipped out the sheaf of brightly colored envelopes. He slid his finger under the flap of one, opened the card inside, and read with his brow furrowed. As if on autopilot, he tore open the next and the next until the floor at his feet was littered with paper and he had read every card. His face was set into a mask of confusion. "Where did these come from?"

Bobby perched on the edge of his desk. "Around May second every year, I'd get a brown envelope with one of those cards inside and a note for me asking if I could pass it on to you when I saw you. They stopped around four years ago. I guess…" He shrugged. "I guess he gave up hope then."

Sam looked honestly confused. "But why would he send them at all?"

"Because he missed his brother. Because for all those years he had hope you'd turn up again. Because he didn't leave you. Your daddy left him."

Sam shook his head jerkily. "No. Dad told me what happened."

"He lied."

"No!" Sam growled. He grabbed at the cards and started tearing them to scraps.

"Stop that!" Bobby shouted, stepping forward. Sam was already on his feet, hands fisted around a scrap of destroyed card, he loomed over Bobby, fury in his eyes.

"You had no right to do this!" he snarled.

"To do what?" Bobby asked. "To open your eyes to the truth?"

Sam turned away and made for the door.

"Sam, wait," Bobby called after him.

Sam didn't even pause. He just opened his fist and dropped the scrap of card to the floor then yanked the door open. Bobby followed and caught the door before it slammed. Sam was already striding across the yard to his car. Bobby watched once again as he climbed behind the wheel and drove out of sight.

Bobby went back into the house and bent to pick up the torn piece of card. It was small, only five words written in it.

_I will find you, Sam._

* * *

**So… Does Sam's behavior last time make a little more sense now? In the words of Mr. Fizzles, John was a li**_**ar. **_** I know the willful destruction of those cards was a dickish thing to do, but you've got to understand where Sam's head's at. He spent the last eleven years worshipping his dad and thinking his brother left him willingly. He's just found out the truth and it's hit him kinda hard. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	9. Chapter 8

**Thanks you Jenjoremy for beta'ing and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help and support in the writing phase.**

**Someone on AO3 asked about Bobby and Ellen not talking for all this time, and I realized I forgot to share that rather important part of this AY they're aware of each other but they're not friends. That's why they've not been talking over the years. **

* * *

_**Chapter Eight**_

Ellen smiled as she pulled up at the back of The Roadhouse. The Impala was parked in its usual spot, which mean Sam was back. He had always checked in between hunts before, but that had changed with the loss of his father. He'd stopped calling, and a lot of the time he ignored her calls. She worried about him, and he used to know that, but it was like he was oblivious these days–as if he had disconnected from everyone the day he burned his father on the pyre. He was here now though, and she was hoping that portended the change in him that she had been waiting for.

She hefted a sack of groceries into each arm and made her way through the back door into the kitchen. There were dirty mugs on the counter and the coffee pot was half-filled which meant Ash at least was awake. He may be a layabout a lot of the time when he wasn't glued to his computer, but he always stocked the pot when he was awake. She sorted through the groceries, stowing the goods into cupboards, then poured herself a mug and carried it through to the still empty bar.

She heard their raised voices before she saw them. Sam was looming over Ash where he sat at the bar, anger etched into his features. "Don't you understand how important this is?" he growled.

"You know I do," Ash said. "But I can't just magic answers out of my ass. You know how the program works. When there's activity, it'll show up, but until it gets topside again, we're clueless."

"What about the other one?" Sam asked. "Have you found that yet?"

Ash shook his head. "You know this, Sam. I can find any demon on the planet, but it's not like they come with a name badge with the signs. I can show you a hundred spots where they are, but I can't narrow it down to a particular demon. You want to go chasing over the country looking, be my guest. I'll even draw you a map with all the activity, but I thought you wanted to actually help people."

She heard enough to understand what was happened; Sam was looking for Yellow-Eyes again, and Ash, through no fault of his own, wasn't delivering the answers Sam wanted. It was like John Winchester all over again. When he'd discovered what Ash could do, he'd become obsessed and had badgered Ash whenever they were in the same place. Sam, it seemed, had taken up the mantle of pain in Ash's ass.

"Killing the Demon _is_ helping people," Sam said angrily.

Ash opened his mouth to answer, but Ellen cleared her throat loudly and his gaze snapped to her. "The voice of reason has arrived," he drawled. "Please explain to Sam that I can only deliver what the facts give me."

Sam glowered at Ellen, as if daring her to try. His attitude seemed to have taken an even greater downturn than it had before, a feat that had seemed impossible.

"What's going on, Sam?" she asked gently. "Has something happened?"

"Plenty's happened," Sam said in a low voice. "Nothing I want to talk about, apart from how the hell I'm supposed to track a demon without your pet genius getting off his ass to help."

"I'm doing my best," Ash started.

"It's not good enough!" Sam shouted.

Ellen flinched. She had seen Sam go through all the years of teen angst, the anger as his dreams of being a lawyer had been shattered, the grief he was still suffering at the loss of his father, but she'd never seen him act like this with any of them. They were family, and that usually meant something to Sam. Even immediately following John's death, Sam had been more controlled than this, and he'd been so angry. Then he'd just shut down to deal with it. It seemed he was tapping into his emotions at long last, but they weren't the ones Ellen wanted from him.

"Screw this!" Ash said, throwing his hands up. "I'm done. Find someone else to chase your damn demon!" He slid off his stool and went into the room he'd claimed as his own. The door slammed behind him, dislodging the 'Dr Badass' sign that Jo had made him for his last birthday.

Ellen was as surprised by his reaction as she was Sam's. Ash was usually so chilled all the time, laid back to the point of being horizontal. He only really got riled when his laptop was failing to do whatever he demanded of it on that day—complex programs Ellen barely understood the name of let alone what they did. He was pissed now, though, and Ellen thought he had good reason.

She fixed her gaze on Sam and raised an eyebrow. "Feel better?"

Sam turned away from her and made for the bar where he grabbed a glass and bottle of whiskey. He carried it to a table and thumped down.

She followed him over and sat down opposite. He still looked angry, his face was slightly reddened and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, but she thought there was something else, too, something in his eyes that wasn't anger.

"What's happened?" she asked.

Sam huffed a laugh. "I'm getting sick of that question. Nothing's happened. I'm fine. Just pissed that Ash is so damn stupid for a card carrying Mensa member."

Ellen narrowed her eyes. "Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not."

"You are," she insisted. "And I want to know why."

"I don't need a lecture Ellen. Especially not about lying. Especially not from you."

Ellen frowned. "What have I lied about?"

Sam shook his head, his color rising again. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what? What's happened to you Sam?"

Sam suddenly lurched to his feet, nudging the table with his legs and knocking over the bottle and glass. Whiskey pooled on the table and dripped down to the floor. "You!" he shouted. "You happened!"

Ellen was genuinely confused. She couldn't think of a thing she had done that would make Sam act like this. She had done everything she was capable of to keep him happy and safe since he had become a permanent part of her life when he was twelve years old.

Sam walked away from her and started to pace the length of the bar. His hands were fisted and his jaw was clenched.

"What did I do?" Ellen asked softly.

Sam was at the door but he turned to face her as he answered. "Dean."

And with that simple word Ellen understood.

* * *

Sam was angry, furious even. He had never felt like this, and the worst part was he didn't understand why. He had put Dean to rest a long time ago; he'd accepted that he was gone and that it was probably for the best, but now, knowing what he knew, he was thrown for a loop all over again.

They'd lied to him; Ellen and his father, maybe even Jo, had lied all this time.

"_Family don't lie to each other."_ Those were words John Winchester had repeated many times over the years to Sam. First when he was a kid, lying about skipping homework to train—the homework had been done and training had been forgotten. Then later, when he'd found out Sam had applied to Stanford behind his back. _"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you hide it? We don't lie to each other, Sam."_

Sam had abided by that rule since he was eighteen years old, since he'd officially joined the life. He had never lied to his father again, and he'd believed he'd never been lied to in return.

And Ellen… She'd been the one person Sam trusted from the minute he met her. She'd been so good to him; she'd taken him in and loved on him like the mother he couldn't remember. She'd held him in her arms the day his whole life fell apart, and he'd given her his heart to protect. He'd been wrong.

All those years, all that time, they'd been hiding the truth from him. He'd grown up believing Dean had left him behind, that he'd chosen to go, but it had been a lie. John had left Dean, not the other way around.

That was another of John's rules. _"Family doesn't abandon family. Would you really leave me just to go to college? To live a life that saves no one?"_

But he'd abandoned Dean. Not completely, of course. He'd left that address for Sam. He'd probably tracked him from the minute he'd left Dean behind, following his life from the shadows like one of the things they hunted. It was all so messed up. He didn't know what to think or feel but anger.

"You lied to me," he accused. "You both did."

She shook her head. "I never lied, Sam, never. Not once. I just didn't tell you."

"Like that makes a difference!" Sam said furiously. "I didn't tell you when I broke the mirror playing soccer with Jo in the bar, but you and Dad still gave me hell about it when you found out. How is that any different to what you did when you were telling me how disappointed in me you were? Am I supposed to tell you I'm disappointed too? Because I'm not. In fact, I know now I should have expected it. Since I was a kid, I've been screwed over by plenty of people. I just never expected you to be one of them."

Ellen looked ashamed but Sam didn't want to see her shame. He wanted her to defend herself so he could argue. He wanted the fight. He wanted to punch a wall until his knuckles were broken and his skin torn.

"Nothing to say?" he growled. "You're usually so chatty."

"How did you find out?" she asked quietly.

"Bobby Singer," Sam said. "I got messed up on a hunt last night and I had to go to him for a stitching job."

"Are you okay?"

Sam laughed humorlessly. "Little late to be pretending you care, isn't it?"

She glowered at him. "You can say what you like, you've got a right to your anger, but never, _never _think I don't care. You're family, Sam, and you always will be. If you walk out of here now and never come back, you'll still be my son."

"I am no one's son anymore. My family's dead," he said harshly, and she flinched.

He recognized that what he had said was a low blow in some part of his mind, but he didn't want to admit it even to himself. Instead, he went on with his story.

"Bobby had all these cards Dean sent after he was dumped, cards for me. Every birthday he'd write one and send it to Bobby to pass on when he saw me. But he never saw me, did he, so those cards have been sitting on a shelf for eleven years." He remembered tearing those cards to shreds and almost regretted it.

"I didn't know about that," she said.

"Of course you didn't. How would you have known? You gave up on Dean just like Dad did."

"I didn't," she lied. "I would have found him for you if I could."

"What stopped you?" Sam asked. "Too busy playing mom?"

She stiffened. "I know you don't believe that."

Sam didn't reply. He just stared at her, waiting for some truth.

She drew a deep breath and her stiff shoulders relaxed. "You want the full story?" she asked. "You want to know what happened back then?"

"I think it's about time, don't you?"

She nodded. "Okay, I'll give it to you, but you're going to sit your ass down and listen to it."

Sam raised an eyebrow. Did she really think she was in a position to give orders? Apparently she did, because she sat in silence for a full minute, meeting his defiant eyes without flinching.

"Fine," Sam huffed, turning a chair away from the table and straddling it. "Talk."

"First thing I need to say is that I love you. I have loved you since before you even remember me. You were one of us even before my Bill died."

Sam nodded jerkily. He would accept that. Ellen did love him as he loved her. Despite what he had said, she was family. She was the only mother he could remember.

She smiled slightly. "And everything I did from the moment your father arrived here with you—without Dean—was because I love you." Her eyes misted and for a moment Sam thought she was going to cry. She didn't though. She took a deep breath and went on. "You and your dad arrived here in the middle of the night. You were…" She shook her head. "I don't even have the right words to describe how damn sad you were. All you wanted was Dean."

Sam remembered. He had been bereft without his brother at first. He'd just been a kid and his whole world had been toppled like a house of cards in one swoop. One minute John was telling him they were going to get Dean—at last, Sam had missed him so much—and the next he would only say one thing. _"Dean's not coming back."_

"I didn't know then what had happened," she went on. "It wasn't till later that your dad told me."

"What did he tell you?" Sam asked.

"He told me Dean had gambled away your food money and then got caught shoplifting. He got taken in and when they called John to tell him, he left him there. Said he wanted to teach him a lesson. They put Dean in some kind of correctional home."

Sam didn't want to believe it. What she was saying went against everything he believed of his father. Every lesson about family he'd ever taught him.

"He went back for him two months later, but…"

"But what?" Sam asked.

"He got scared."

Sam scoffed. John Winchester didn't get scared. He was a hunter, the best Sam had ever known. Real hunters didn't feel fear. That was for civilians.

Ellen watched him for a moment, and he was sure she was going to try to correct him—like _she_ knew—but she didn't. "This guy that was taking care of Dean made him think he was going to take you away, too. He was sure he was going to lose both of you. He ran."

"He just abandoned him?"

"He made the choice to let Dean go to save you."

"So this is my fault?" Sam asked. There was horror in him but no sign of it on his face. "My fault again?"

"What happened to your dad wasn't your fault," Ellen said sternly.

Sam waved away her words. He didn't want to hear it. He knew the truth.

"And I don't believe it was your father's fault either," Ellen said. "He thought it was for the best. Apparently Dean was doing well there, winning contests and acing school. He knew he could have a better life, so he let him go."

Sam knew some parts of this already, the better life part, but he never believed it was John's choice. He still wasn't sure he believed it now.

One night, shortly after Dean had disappeared, Sam had woken in the night to find his father at the table in their motel room, drinking whiskey from the bottle and red-eyed from tears. Sam had asked him once again where Dean was, and John had finally answered, "Dean's got a better life now. A life he wants. He's okay. He's doing well. But he's not coming back to us, Sammy. It's just me and you now."

Sam had wrapped his arms around his father for the first time since he was small, and John had held him tight. Sam had known John was hurting because Dean was gone, and he had wanted to take his sorrow away. He had known how sad John was because he'd been sad, too, because Dean had left them. He'd decided in that moment that he would never let his dad be sad like that again. He wouldn't ask about Dean any more.

"Why did you let me believe Dean left us?" Sam asked.

Ellen looked sorrowful. "Because you didn't ask, Sam. You never spoke about him again when you came back. And because I was scared."

"Of what?"

"Losing you. Your dad made it clear that we weren't to talk about Dean anymore. He said if you asked, I had to send you to him for the answers. I was afraid that if I told you the truth, if I went against what he wanted, he'd take you and we'd never see you again. I knew you needed me, so I stayed quiet. I'm more sorry than you can know," Ellen said. "But I thought I was doing the right thing. I loved you too much to lose you."

Sam finally understood. He would probably have made the same choice if he'd been at risk of losing Jo or Ellen. After Dean was gone, they and John were his world. They were all he had left.

His anger bled out of him and was replaced by something akin to what he had felt standing by his father's pyre. He didn't want to feel it. It hurt too much. Anger was better. But try as he might, he couldn't recall it, not even when he thought of how his father had hidden the truth from him all those years, letting him think bad of the brother he'd worshiped.

"What the hell do I do now?" he asked, not aware had spoken aloud until Ellen answered.

"You go find your brother."

"He's a stranger," Sam said.

"He doesn't have to be," she said gently. "You have to make a choice. You can go find him, rebuild some of what you once had, or you can let him go again. Whatever you decide, I'll support you. But remember this—it's not just you that stands to lose something if it doesn't work out. Dean lost his family, too, Sam."

Sam nodded slowly. He understood Dean had lost a lot, and from his reaction at Bobby's place he would want Sam to find him again, but Sam didn't know if he could. Like the anger, indifference was easier to handle. He'd been indifferent to almost everything since John had died. If he went to find Dean now, he was opening himself up to a world of pain and disappointment.

He wasn't sure he could do it. He'd already lost too much by feeling.

* * *

**So… We're getting down to it now. The truth is out and Sam's got a choice to make. I feel so bad for Ellen in this chapter. She really didn't have a choice but to hide the truth. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	10. Chapter 9

**Much thanks to Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for helping me outline. Their ideas made the story.**

* * *

_**Chapter Nine**_

It had been a long day. Dean was tired and questioning the evilness of the human race as he pulled his bike to a stop on his driveway. He'd spent most of the afternoon talking with a thirteen-year-old boy who had been in the foster care system for three months, ever since his dad beat him so badly he was hospitalized—all for the crime of burning a meal.

It was harder with older kids, as it was very unlikely they were going to be picked up by potential adoptees. People preferred babies and toddlers they could raise as their own. No one wanted to deal with teen angst in a kid that wasn't even theirs. The kid that afternoon, Aidan, was having a hard time in his current location. The other kids in his placement were giving him a hard time because he happened to be the smallest.

Dean wanted nothing more than to pack him up and send him to Sonny. He'd be taken care of there. He'd even have a chance to make something of himself, like Dean had. But relationships between the state systems sucked when it came to things like that. Nebraska would be more than happy to move him on but New York wouldn't want another drain on their resources. It was a screwed up system that Dean hated but had no control over.

He felt a wave of relief as he opened his front door and stepped inside. It had been many years now since he had last checked into a motel, but there was still something special about coming into his own home at the end of a day. For all the years of memories of his own home, there were many more of a life on the road. Despite the fact it reminded him of what he had lost along with the road, Dean liked it. A lot of things like that were bittersweet these days. He'd learned to take his joys where he could find them.

He tossed his keys onto the table and hung his leather jacket on the hook before making his way into the kitchen. He wanted to flop down on the couch and not move till morning, but his stomach growled in protest of the idea. Rooting through his fridge he found a ready mixed stirfry that just needed to be slung into a wok for a while. He flipped on the radio and set to work. Not for the first time, he wondered what John and Sam would make of him actually working a stove for something other than SpaghettiOs or macaroni cheese. He'd never find out about John and it was unlikely Sam would ever allow him the chance to show him his skills.

He sighed.

His mind always seemed to be drifting to Sam these days, ever since he'd seen him at Bobby's. It was easier when he was working. Sam's face didn't superimpose over the kids' faces anymore, as he had finally seen something to replace young Sam in his memory. He'd seen his brother as a man. When he was home though, doing any number of inane things like cleaning or cooking, Sam would come to mind.

He didn't know what he had been expecting when he saw Sam again, but it sure as hell wasn't for Sam to not to know him. The fact that Bobby said it was a lie made it even harder. Was the idea of reconnecting with Dean really that bad?

When his meal was ready, he took it over to the small table under the lounge window and ate, sipping a beer between mouthfuls, with the TV playing in the background. He was just finishing off when he felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He had been out of the life a long time, but he hadn't forgotten what his father had taught him. When you felt something like that, there was a reason. Dean didn't get goosed over nothing.

His gaze snapped to the window and he noticed a car parked on the other side of the street, a sleek, black car that he would know anywhere, just as he would know the feel of the seats and the sound of the engine as it ate the miles even if he was blindfolded. You didn't forget your home.

He rose to his feet without even being aware of making the decision and went to the front door. His heart was in his throat as he pulled it open. Sam was there. Sam hadcome back. It was too much and not enough at the same time. He flew out onto his porch, feet carrying him towards the Impala without conscious instruction, but it was too late. The idling engine roared to life and the car peeled away from the curb, heading to the end of the road.

Dean turned and walked back inside, closing the door behind him, disappointment heavy within him. He went into the lounge and picked up his beer from the table. Finishing it in one long gulp, he wished for something stronger. He wanted to punch something to vent his feelings. He wanted to shout. He wanted to track Sam down and shake him till he talked.

He did none of those things. Instead, he picked up his phone and dialed a familiar number. He flopped onto the couch and leaned his head back against the cushions, covering his face with an arm as the phone rang on the other end.

Bobby answered, sounding distracted. "Singer Salvage."

"Bobby, it's me."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm…" Dean hesitated, the lie on the tip of his tongue but refusing to be released. He knew better than to lie. Not only did Bobby always know, but he had also made the call for a reason and it wasn't to hear a familiar voice. "I'm crap."

"What's wrong?" Bobby asked warily.

"I think, I mean, I _know_ I saw Sam."

He heard Bobby suck in a shocked breath. "You did? Where?"

"Outside my house. I was just eating and I felt someone watching me. I looked out the window, and there he was, sitting in the Impala."

"What happened?" Bobby asked.

"He drove off before I could get close," Dean said bitterly.

"Balls!"

"It might not be all bad though, right?" Dean said hopefully. "I mean, if he's gone to the trouble of tracking me down he has to _want _to see me."

There was a heavy silence for a long moment and then Bobby said, "I saw him, Dean. He came by my place again."

"When?"

"About a week ago. He got cut up pretty bad on a hunt and he needed a no-questions-asked fix-up job."

"Is he okay? What happened to him? Why didn't you call me?" Dean asked the most important question first, but he eagerly awaited the answers to the others, too.

"He's fine. Just got swiped by a werewolf. I didn't call you because I wasn't sure what he was thinking, and I didn't want you to come running just to be disappointed again."

Dean appreciated Bobby's concern, but he'd still rather have had the call. If he'd seen Sam, maybe he could have found out Sam's version of his absence. He could find out if Bobby was right that Sam thought Dean had left them rather than the other way around. He could have told him the truth.

"What did he say?" Dean asked.

"He…" Bobby sighed, the sound crackling over the phone. "Dean, I was right. He thought it was your choice to go. Your daddy lied to him."

Dean closed his eyes. "That… bastard."

"Agreed," Bobby said.

"Did you tell him the truth?" Dean asked. "Did you tell him I had no choice in it?"

"I did."

Dean felt a wave of something close to fear. It was like a hand gripping his gut and squeezing. "And?"

"I showed him the cards," Bobby went on. "I tried to make him understand."

"But he didn't?" Dean already knew the answer to that. Bobby had said tried not convinced.

"I'm sorry, Dean. He tore the cards up and walked out. He didn't want to hear what I was saying."

Dean almost moaned. Those cards had meant something to him. They had been the closest things he had to a connection to Sam for years. The thought of them being torn to scraps by the person they'd been written for was painful.

"It's okay," he said dully. "Not your fault."

"Maybe it's not all bad," Bobby said. "You're right, if he was at your place, it means he took the time to track you down. He wouldn't have done that if he wasn't interested. Something connected with him in those cards. He's not cut himself off completely. You have to hold onto that."

Dean nodded and then realized Bobby couldn't see him. "Yeah. It's gotta mean something. Maybe it just means he's curious about the life I had without him, but I'll take anything right now, curiosity included."

"Sounds good to me," Bobby said. "I'm not making any guarantees; when he left here he was pissed, but it might work out, Dean."

"Here's hoping," Dean said.

"Hope's all we got. Will you take a piece of advice?"

"Sure."

"Don't rush him. If he shows up again, let him come to your door in his own time. He's a lot like your daddy, and we both know how damn pigheaded he was. Let him set the pace."

"Agreed." Dean said.

It might be the hardest thing he'd ever done, but Dean would let Sam make the moves now. If it meant he would make it across the road to Dean eventually, it was awesome. If not… well, Dean would give it a little longer before making any other decisions.

* * *

It did happen again. The very next night, as Dean was watched the Patriots kicking the Seahawks' ass, he felt eyes on him again. Under the pretense of stretching, Dean chanced a glance out of the window and saw the Impala on the other side of the street. Sam's shape was vaguely discernible in the street light through the window.

Dean wanted nothing more than to go out there and talk to his brother, but he resisted. He had to treat Sam like one of his traumatized kids. Sometimes you had to let them talk when they were ready. In the meantime, you filled the silence with talk about Zeppelin and football. Sooner or later, they talked. This time Dean couldn't fill the silence, but he could wait it out. Sooner or later, Sam would come to him. He hoped.

It went on for a week. Every night, as Dean did paperwork, watched TV, or read case reports, he'd feel eyes on him and he'd know Sam was there again. He waited for the knock on the door, but it didn't come. On the seventh night, Dean was walking back from the kitchen, beer in hand, when he thought he'd push the limits just a little. He walked over to the window and raised his bottle in salute. For a minute he thought Sam was going to ignore the gesture, but then Dean saw his profile shift as he nodded. The engine rumbled to life and the lights flashed once before Sam drove slowly away. It wasn't a massive success, that would be Sam coming in to share a beer, but it was enough to satisfy Dean for another day.

Except, on the eighth day, Sam didn't come.

* * *

Dean told himself not to be alarmed; it didn't mean Sam was in trouble just because he hadn't seen him, but he worried nonetheless. He worried so much that at the end of the second week without a sign of him, he called Bobby and asked for help. The only thing Bobby had to offer was the name of a bar called The Roadhouse that Sam had mentioned. Apparently it was a known hunter haunt about an hour's drive from Dean. He set out for the place Friday night, three weeks after he'd first seen Sam parked outside his house.

His first impression of the place was that it looked like it was about to fall down.

He parked the bike beside a rusted Pinto and walked to the door. A hum of noise reached him before he even had it all the way open: laughter, music and voices. It was a good sound. When he got inside he immediately understood what Bobby meant about it being a hunter haunt. The place was packed with them, and they weren't even trying to hide it. At one table a dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair, a trimmed beard, and a scar on his face was sharpening a machete with a grim smile on his face. At another, a man was field-stripping a revolver. What civilians thought when they stumbled into the place Dean couldn't imagine and didn't even want to guess.

He felt like a civilian in there, too. He'd not had to sharpen a hunting knife in a long time; he'd not handled a gun in even longer. He'd not been a hunter since he was sixteen years old.

He made his way over to the bar and leaned against it as he waited for the woman serving to notice him. She looked familiar with her long brown hair and stern expression. He wondered if she was a hunter, too.

She slid a beer across the bar to a man and swiped his bill in exchange. There was an exchange between them that he couldn't hear but thought looked good-natured, and then the woman's eyes moved along the bar to him. Her mouth dropped open as she looked at him, and Dean thought she maybe paled a little.

She walked towards him, eyes wary, and came to a stop in front of him. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you really," she said.

It was her voice that did it, gravel and compassion. "Ellen?"

She smiled slightly. "Wondered if you'd remember."

Dean nodded and looked around the bar. Now that he had her placed, he recognized the large room, too. He remembered playing amid the tables as a child with Sam, and then helping out as a teenager, feeling so important as he stacked clean glasses behind the bar, waiting for the day Bill would trust him to draw a beer of his own. They'd come here a lot for a long time, but then Bill had been killed and Ellen had become a memory.

"How's Jo?" he asked.

Ellen smiled. "She's okay. Currently giving your brother hell though."

"Is he here?" Dean asked eagerly.

She shook her head. "Not right now."

"But he's okay?"

"He's Sam."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "That's not much of an answer."

"He's fine really," she said. "He's coming off a hunt right now, bringing my wayward daughter back with him and hopefully talking some sense into her at the same time." She sighed. "I'm guessing you've got a few questions for me."

Dean shrugged. "I do? What I'm looking for is my brother. I didn't come expecting answers. But if you're offering them, I'll take them. Do you know Sam well then?"

Her eyes were soft as she said, "Oh, honey. Yeah, I know him. I'm the one who raised him."

Dean leaned back slightly, a kneejerk reaction to what she was saying. _He'd _raised Sam. Not her. He'd made his meals and ensured he went to school. He'd made sure Sam did his homework and distracted him from worry when their father was on a hunt. When Sam's world had come tumbling down the day he read the journal and learned the truth about what was out there, Dean had comforted him. He'd been the one woken by Sam's nightmares, and he'd talked him down from the fear.

Either not seeing Dean's horror or not understanding it, she went on, "I mean your daddy did his part, but the real work, that was me, was since he was twelve-years-old."

Dean had worried at first that John would struggle to take care of Sam. He wouldn't know the little details Dean knew—like the fact that even though he loved PB&amp;J, he refused point blank to eat jelly otherwise. Like the fact he wouldn't fall asleep if Dean wasn't awake still, guarding him. He wouldn't know Sam needed school like a dog needed exercise and it was down to Dean to make sure he got to go, and not just because CPS would interfere otherwise. The first year away had been full of those fears, but he'd comforted himself with the fact John would learn how to take care of Sam. Now it seemed he hadn't. He'd passed the responsibility on to Ellen.

Ellen seemed to read his thoughts in his face. "I took care of him, Dean. He was okay, or at least as much as he could be after what happened."

"It was bad for him?" Dean guessed.

"You have no idea. When they showed up here…" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter.

"It does to me," Dean said. "I've missed all this time, and whatever happened has changed Sam into someone I barely recognize. You have to tell me because otherwise I'll never understand and I'll never be able to fix it."

Ellen sighed. "I've never seen a sadder kid. They came here straight from wherever it was you were staying, and they were both so… broken." Seeing his doubtful look she said, "Your daddy, too, Dean. I'd only ever seen him like that once before and that was after my Bill died, and they were like brothers." Her gaze became sad. "But you wanted to know about Sam."

Dean nodded. "Please."

"Well, like I said, he was broken. He came out of that car, a scrap of a thing, and asked for you. He only wanted you, and I had no idea what to tell him because I didn't know what had happened then. I only had him for a night, else I would have done things differently maybe, but your dad dragged him out of bed at dawn and they took off. I didn't see them for a month, and when I did, he'd changed."

"Like he is now you mean?" Dean asked. He felt slightly horrified. He'd thought it was life that had hardened Sam, losing his father. The idea that it was losing _him_ that had done it was abhorrent. He couldn't bear to be the one who had ruined Sam so completely.

"No," she said, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "This is all new. He's always been tough, but he wasn't always hard with us. Since losing your dad, he's shut down. That's the man you met a month ago. But when he was a kid, he was still happy a lot of the time. He and John would come here between hunts, and other times John would leave him here while he went to take on a big case. This was his home."

Dean nodded but remained silent. They'd not had a house to call home since Sam was a baby, but they'd had each other, and that had been enough for them. Dean didn't begrudge Sam the stability Ellen and The Roadhouse must have given him, but he did wish he had been there, too. That way they could have had each other in a real home.

"He _was_ happy sometimes," Ellen said gently, as if fearing that she was upsetting Dean with the confession. She wasn't. Dean wanted his brother to be happy, even if he wasn't there to share it. "He and Jo grew close. They were a pair of hellions when they got together, running riot around the place. It was good to see, because the happiness wasn't always there. Losing you took something more than a brother from Sam. It was like he lost a part of himself, and sometimes that loss got him down."

Dean could relate. He lost a part of himself when he lost Sam, too. He'd felt Sam's absence more keenly than he did his father's, as he'd always been closer to Sam than anyone. Embarrassingly, Dean felt a lump form in his throat and the back of his eyes burned. He forced it back, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat.

"But he's not happy now, is he?" he asked.

"No," Ellen said somberly. "He really isn't. He's the farthest thing from it. Has been ever since John died."

"What happened?" Dean asked.

Ellen considered for a moment and then said, "That's not my story to tell. It's Sam's. And don't be surprised if he doesn't want to tell it."

Dean started to answer but the man Dean had seen with the machete earlier stepped up beside him and slapped a bill down onto the bar. "Beer please, Ellen."

"Gordon," she growled. "I know you can see I'm talking here."

"And I know you can see I'm thirsty; last time I checked, this was still a bar," Gordon replied.

Ellen looked at Dean. "I'm sorry about this."

"It's fine," Dean said. "I'll let you get on with your work." He started away but she called after him.

"You're not leaving are you?"

"Before I see my brother? Not a chance. I'll just get a table and wait."

She smiled slightly. "That's good. Just… Dean, don't expect him to act happy to see you."

"Not a problem," Dean said. "I have no expectations, just a little hope."

He went to the corner and sat down at a table, letting his eyes scan the room surreptitiously. It was a strange place, but he could see why John would have liked it. No one hid anything here. He was happy Sam had a place he could be himself, too.

Ellen brought him a beer, and Dean settled in, listening to the music coming from the jukebox and the hum of conversation around him while appearing to be absorbed in the label of his beer bottle.

Every time the door opened his gaze snapped up to see if it was Sam. He was disappointed every time until a little after eleven when a young woman Dean thought must be Jo all grown up stomped through the door followed by Sam. Sam didn't look into Dean's corner. He took Jo's arm and led her over to the bar. He looked grim but his grip on Jo was light, barely there.

He had a brief conversation with Ellen while Jo glared at him and then Ellen said something to him and his gaze snapped to Dean. For a moment he looked into Dean's eyes, an indecipherable expression on his face, and then he turned back to Ellen and said something.

She smiled and nodded then reached under the bar and presented him with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Sam seemed to brace himself then he turned away from the bar and walked over to Dean.

Dean's heart was pounding against his ribs. Sam was there and this time it didn't look like he was going to make a run for it, unless the bottle was to smash over Dean's head of course before he made his escape.

He got to Dean's table and sat down, his chair pulled far back. He set the bottle and glasses down and spoke quietly. "I guess we should talk."

* * *

**So… Hands up if you hate me for cutting off the chapter there? I'll get the next out to you as soon as I can. **

**Quick explanation note: Dean remembers Ellen in this story because he and Sam had a relationship with her before Bill Harvelle died. They would have gone there while John took cases with Bill. **

**Until next time…**

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	11. Chapter 10

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help and support. **

**You guys BLEW ME AWAY with the response to the last chapter. I am so happy so many of you are enjoying the story so much. Seeing as you're all being so awesome with the reviews—even those of you that hate me—I'm posting this one ahead of schedule. *hugs each and every one of you***

* * *

_**Chapter Ten**_

Sam poured them each a large measure of whiskey then knocked his back in one swallow. Dean tried not to grimace at the sight, but it reminded him so forcibly of his father that it was a close call. Sam poured another and swirled the glass, his gaze fixed on the liquor with a look in his eyes that was almost longing. That was familiar to Dean, too.

He cleared his throat and Sam looked up warily. It was as if he expected Dean to attack at any moment. Dean recognized the expression. He'd seen in on kids' faces a lot over the years. It was how they looked when they were dreading something but were forced to face it. He hated to think that was how Sam was feeling now in his company.

"So what do you want to talk about?" Dean asked. His intention was to let Sam take the lead, for him to decide what they discussed and when, but from Sam's look of amusement, he guessed he sounded a little too much like a social worker for his liking.

Sam sipped at his drink and then said, "I've heard a lot of things recently, some from Bobby Singer and some from Ellen, and I thought maybe I owed you the opportunity to tell me your side of the story."

Dean nodded. That was good. Sam wasn't pushing him away. He was open to the talk. "What do you know already?" he asked. "I don't want to bore you by repeating."

"Assume I don't know anything," Sam said. "Start from the beginning. When I last saw you?"

"What do you remember?"

"Being hungry," Sam said then looked away, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," Dean said quickly.

Sam waved a hand dismissively. "Doesn't matter."

"You _were_ hungry," Dean said. "I'd lost our money in a poker game, so I tried getting some food from a Gas-N-Sip."

"Five finger discount?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Only I got busted. Clerk collared me and called the cops. Things went south from there. The deputy was a little rough so I decked him, gave him a black eye. That got me dragged off to lockup. They called Dad and… Well, I guess he was pissed. He told them to keep me."

Sam didn't speak but his face twisted into a grimace.

Dean didn't want to upset him more, but Sam had asked for the story, so he would deliver. "They took me to Sonny's place."

"Who's Sonny?"

"He runs a home for boys like me. Kids who get in trouble or are…" He was going to say abandoned, but he didn't think Sam would take it well, so he paused for a moment, searching for the right words, before going on, "kids who have nowhere else to go. He's a good man, and he took me in."

Sam was swirling his whiskey again, and Dean was unsure of whether he was boring him or if he was absorbing what Dean was saying. He feared the former, so he trimmed the tale.

"I was there a couple months. One night… There was this dance, you see, and I had a girl, so we went. When I got back… to Sonny's place"— he almost said home—"he told me dad had come by to get me. I wasn't there though. You don't have any idea, Sam, how happy I was when I heard it. I was finally going home, but dad had already left. I didn't find this out till about a year later, but apparently Sonny and Dad had words. Sonny said some crap, and I'm guessing dad did, too, and dad drove off."

"He left you," Sam said quietly.

Dean nodded. "He left me. I didn't give up though. I thought he'd come back for sure, so I waited. I waited another month before I realized I was going to have to find him and you on my own. I started tracking hunts, thinking he'd take them, too, and I'd meet up with you there. I must have done it more than half-a-dozen times, stealing Sonny's truck and driving all over, but you were never there."

"You stopped looking though," Sam said. "Why?"

"The last time it happened, about a year after I lost you, I met Bobby instead. He'd taken the hunt. He… I guess you could say he talked some sense into me. He persuaded me to go back to Sonny's, and when I got there, I had another dose of truth from him. They made me see I was wasting my life, dropping everything every time I got wind of a case."

"Wasting, huh?" Sam said dourly.

"You've got to understand where my head was at, Sam. I had spent a year looking, trying everything I could think of to find you, and I was no closer to actually seeing you than I had been the day dad drove away. That's not all though. Sonny told me I should make you proud. He said I should have something to show for the time I'd been away when I found you again." He huffed a laugh. "I took it to heart. I _wanted_ you to be proud. I wanted to show you there was another life available. I knuckled down and worked my ass off. I made it into college, and worked even harder."

"I read that in the cards," Sam said. "Seems like you've made quite a life for yourself."

Dean nodded. "In a way, yeah, but know this, I never gave up on you. I always hoped I'd find you again. It was never a complete life without you."

Sam laughed softly. It was a whisper of amusement, but Dean was thankful for it. It was the first sign of anything like humor he'd seen in his brother since he was twelve. It made him think that Sam, his Sam, was still in there somewhere. "Did you turn into a woman while you were gone, too?" Sam asked.

Dean laughed a full throaty laugh, drawing curious looks from the other patrons. When he choked himself to calm he said, "No. I'm still all man. Just a little different."

"No kidding," Sam said, sounding amused.

Just then Jo came to their table with two bottles of beer in her hands. She set them down and said, "Thought you two could do with something to dilute the whiskey."

Dean hadn't touched his whiskey, but he nodded gratefully. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said with sultry hint to her voice.

Dean watched her walk back to the bar with a distinct sashay in her hips and he grinned.

"Don't even think about it," Sam said.

"What?"

"I remember what you were like with women, Dean," Sam said, a trace of a growl in his voice. "Jo is off limits. Understand?"

"I wasn't even thinking of it," Dean protested. "That's not me anymore. It's been a long time since then. I've changed."

"Good," Sam said. "She's not really interested anyway. She's just trying to piss me off. Figures hooking up with you would do that."

"Why's she trying to do that?"

Sam sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I was on a hunt this week, a badass vengeful sprit in Philadelphia, and she showed up all eager and ready to help." He smiled grimly. "I handcuffed her to a pipe in the apartment and went to take care of it. Jo wants to be a hunter, see, and that's the last thing in the world she's going to do with her life. She's determined, but me and Ellen are even more so. She's going back to college and making something of her life that doesn't involve risking her life every day, even if I have to drag her there kicking and screaming."

Dean thought it should be Jo's choice what she did with her life, but he didn't voice his opinion. He was still marveling at the fact he was withSam, having an actual conversation that was civil. Sam wasn't running or pretending he didn't know him. It was more than he'd hoped for when he arrived at the bar.

He noticed Sam sounded almost longing when he was talking about Jo going to college, and he wondered if it was because that was what he wanted for her or because it was what he wanted for himself. He decided to risk the question, albeit it in a roundabout way.

"What about you? Ever think about college?"

"I'm a hunter," Sam said stolidly. "Don't need a degree for that."

"True," Dean said. "But did you ever think about leaving the life?"

Sah shook his head. "I didn't have anyone to talk sense into me, Dean." He stared moodily into his glass. Dean was sure he wasn't going to say anything else, but then he spoke in a low voice, "Once I did, think about it that is. I wanted to be a lawyer. I even applied to colleges, got accepted into one, but it didn't work out."

"Which college?" Dean asked curiously.

"Stanford," Sam said without looking up. "Had a scholarship and everything."

Dean was awed. He'd always known Sam was the smart one, kid was a damn genius even at twelve, but Stanford… It would have been incredible for him. Sam would make a kickass lawyer. "Why didn't you go?"

Sam looked up and met his eyes, one clenched fist bumping against the tabletop in a gesture Dean was sure was unconscious. "Because Dad found it."

"It?"

Sam downed his whiskey and slammed the glass down onto the table. "The thing that killed mom."

Dean sat back in his chair, feeling suddenly that all the strength had drained out of him.

Mary Winchester's memory had never left him. He could recall her voice and the faint lilac scent of her perfume. Her voice was fixed in his mind saying the last words she would ever speak to him: _"Sleep well, my love. Angels will be watching over you."_ He had never stopped wondering about it, the thing that had taken her from him. It had been the mission since he was four-years-old. In the meantime there were countless other hunts, people saved, but it had all been for her. They had found it, and he hadn't been there to help.

"Is it dead?" he asked.

"Not yet. It will be soon though."

"What is it?"

"It's a demon. A badass demon."

"You can't kill a demon, Sam."

Sam smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. It promised trouble and pain. Dean looked away and took in the now emptying bar and Ellen shooing the few remaining patrons out.

"Actually you can."

"What?" Dean's gaze snapped back to his brother.

Sam lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. "If you've got the right weapon, you can kill anything." He rubbed a hand across his throat, one finger tracing the line of his scar. "And we had that weapon."

"Had? What happened?"

Sam looked around, checking the room. Only he, Ellen and Dean were in there now. The door was just closing behind the last of patrons. He turned back to Dean and started to speak.

* * *

John Winchester had many secrets, things Sam knew Dean wasn't ready to be told yet if he ever would be, but he was sharing one of his biggest that night. They were sitting together in Ellen's empty bar, Sam and his father, in the dead of night, with an antique gun on the table in front of them.

"Back in 1835, when Halley's comet was overhead, the same night those men died at the Alamo, they say Samuel Colt made a gun. A special gun. He made it for a hunter, a man like us, only on horseback. Story goes he made thirteen bullets, and this hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him."

"This gun?" Sam asked.

John nodded.

"But what's so special about it? I mean, aside from the history."

John ran a finger over the intricately carved handle. "They say this gun can kill anything."

"Anything?" Sam felt a creeping of excitement curling his stomach. "Like the Demon?"

John smiled. "Like the Demon. We've finally got it, Son. We're not trying to exorcise it anymore. We're not sending it on home. We've got a way to kill it dead once and for all."

Sam's lips curled into a beatific smile. Finally. After all these years hunting, after four years on the tail of Yellow-Eyes, they had a weapon that would end it all at last.

"Where did you find it?"

"Daniel Elkins had it. I found out after he died."

Daniel Elkins… Sam hadn't heard his name in forever. He'd never met the man, but he remembered taking calls from him for John when he was a kid. Yet another hunter lost to the cause.

"I heard he died, so I went by his house. Followed the trail to a letter he'd left me, telling me how he'd had it, and then followed the trail to the colt. It was vampires. They killed him."

Sam was still trying to absorb the fact that the colt could really kill anything when John dropped another bomb on him.

"It cost us, Sammy."

"Who?" Sam asked.

"Jim Murphy and Caleb."

Sam sucked in a shocked breath. He hadn't seen either of them for a long time, but they'd once been like family. He felt tears prick his eyes, but he forced them back through sheer force of will and nodded. He would mourn later when he was alone. John didn't need to see his histrionics.

"I took out the head vamp with the colt and the others ran for it, but it was too late for Jim and Caleb." He raised his tired eyes to Sam. "I'm sorry, son."

Sam shook his head jerkily, denying the need for an apology. "So it works," he said. "The colt killed a vampire?"

"Yeah. Took him down with one shot. I really think it's what's going to swing this thing for us. We've just got to find the yellow-eyed bastard and we can end it. We can finally let her rest. You with me?"

"Always," Sam vowed.

* * *

Sam thought it was fated to work. How wrong he was.

They rousted Ash from sleep and set him to work on the computer. They wanted a demon, any demon, so that they could get the information they needed on Yellow-Eyes. They'd been skimming the usual signs, searching for something close, when Ash found signs in Wyoming, signs of a very powerful demon.

They said their farewells to Ellen and Jo, clapped Ash on the back, thanked him for his work, and set out. The drive was long, and they made it in almost total silence; the only sound was John's tape playing in the deck. Sam's mind was occupied with the magnitude of the moment. They were going to kill the Demon. The cause that had been his whole life was finally going to be over.

He wondered what he would do next. John would continue to hunt, that was never in question, but perhaps he would give Sam his blessing for something else now. Maybe he could pursue his college dream again. He wouldn't be abandoning his father. Not really. Maybe John would see that. The idea was tantalizing, and he allowed hope to fill him for a while.

The place the signs pointed to was called Miner's Delight, a ghost town. Sam and John drove the dilapidated roads, coming into town around noon. There were only a few buildings still standing, and it struck Sam as the perfect place for their final showdown.

As they stood on what would have once been Main Street for the place but now housed only a few tumbledown buildings and fallen hitching posts, Sam asked, "Where do you think it is?"

John looked up and down the street, his brow creased. "Could be anywhere. One thing I know is it's watching us."

Sam could feel it, too. Eyes bored into him, but as gaze swept the street, he could see no sign.

"Think we should split up?" he asked.

John shook his head. "Not this time, son. I want you in my line of sight at all times. Understood?"

Sam was about to answer, to agree, when he heard the sound of a slow handclap coming from behind one of the buildings. He instinctively stepped closer to his father, his Taurus gripped in his sweaty hand. He knew it would do no good, John was the one with the gun that could actually kill tucked inside his coat, but he didn't put it away. He felt naked when he was unarmed.

"You made it!" a delighted voice said. A woman stepped into view. She was young, with cropped blonde hair and a soft jaw. Her pink painted lips were curved into a wide smile. "I wondered if you would."

Sam had always expected the Demon to be in a man's meat suit. Somehow this woman looked too soft, too weak to be housing a demon of its power. Appearances were deceiving, though, and it wouldn't stop him from taking the shot if he had opportunity.

"Where is he?" John asked in a low growl.

The demon walked forward until she was only a matter of feet from them. There was no sign of fear in her. "I'm already here, John."

"You're not him," John said.

"How do you know?"

Sam was wondering the same. Was it just because his father was a superior hunter to anyone else out there, or had he been hunting this thing so long he had some insight into it that Sam lacked?

"Christo!" John spat.

The demon's eyes flashed black and she laughed. "Okay, you got me. I'm not _him._ Close enough for government work though."

"Where is he?" John asked again.

"Not here."

John's hand flashed into his pocket in a move so fast Sam could never have matched it. He pulled out the colt, raised the gun, and pointed it deliberately between her eyes. "Tell me."

Her eyes widened. "Where did you get that?"

"Friend willed it to me," John said. "Now answer my question or I'll shoot."

Sam was sure she would, she looked afraid enough to spill any secret they demanded, but then an inexplicable smile crept across her face. "Not so fast, Johnny."

One moment she was standing in front of them, smiling, and the next Sam felt hot breath in his ear as his arm was torqued around his back. She had him pinned.

"Gonna shoot now?" she asked, jerking Sam from side to side.

He couldn't see what she was doing behind him, but he was sure she was using Sam's capitulation to taunt John, showing that he couldn't shoot.

"Let him go," John snarled.

"No," she said gleefully. "I think I'll hang onto him a little longer. Maybe even take him for a test drive."

There was anguish in John's eyes. Sam had only seen him look like this a few times in his life, and always in the direst circumstances, like the time Sam had taken a shot to the side by an unhinged ghoul with John's own gun a few years ago.

"Now," she said, "you're going to hand over that pretty gun and I'll let you live. Refuse me, I will cut Sammy's throat."

Sam felt something cool press against his adam's apple and a sharp pain as it nicked the skin. He locked eyes on his father. "Take the shot."

"He won't do that," she said. "Not to his _Sammy_."

"Do it!" Sam shouted. "Kill her!" He was sure John could make the shot without even grazing him. No one shot straighter than his father.

John shook his head and lowered the gun slightly. "Not for this. Not for her. I'll not give it up though."

The demon's breath brushed Sam's neck as she spoke. "Then I guess this is what they call stalemate. Hmmm, what to do? Oh, I know."

Sam felt a searing pain across his neck, and then a rush of warmth as the blood began to flow. He brought his free hand up to clutch at the wound, to staunch the blood, but it slipped through his fingers.

"Sam!" John shouted, rushing forward.

"Stay where you are!" she snarled. "I will hold Sammy until he bleeds to death if you don't hand over that gun right now."

Sam's vision was blurring and he knew he was moments from losing consciousness. The cut couldn't be that deep, he'd be dead already if it was, but the blood loss was fast draining him.

John raised the gun and Sam saw his finger easing down on the trigger. He wasn't scared, John would make the shot, but before the gun could fire, the hands holding him were gone and he was face down on the ground, his blood spilling onto the dirt.

He felt himself being rolled onto his back and John's face swam in his vision. "Oh God! Sam! Sammy!"

"M'fine," Sam rasped.

"You will be. You'll be okay," John said. "I'm going to…"

Sam didn't hear any more as darkness swept over him.

* * *

Dean took a swig of his untouched whiskey as Sam finished his tale. He needed the hit to help with everything he'd heard. He had listened in silence, wondering if Sam had ever told the story before. He had said it all dispassionately, as if it was something that had happened to someone else. Dean had heard the real emotion behind the story though, even though Sam had obviously not wanted to share it. It was a tale of suffering beyond what someone should have to bear. Dean had spent years listening to other stories of the same level if not source of pain.

"And that's that," Sam finished.

But that wasn't it. Though Sam had mentioned John multiple times, he hadn't told Dean what had killed their father. "And Dad?"

"Dead," Sam said with awful finality.

"How?"

Sam shook his head. "Not now."

Dean wanted to push, he had a right to know after all, but he thought Sam had given him enough today. There was a high risk that if he pushed for more, Sam would shut down completely, and that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to know how they'd lost the colt, too, but he had a feeling that was linked to John's death.

Dean felt eyes on him, and he glanced back to see Ellen wiping the bar with a cloth. He wondered if she'd been there the whole time, listening. He looked at her red eyes and wet cheeks and guessed she had. How much of the story did she already know, and how much had been new to her? Definitely some of it.

Sam hissed between his teeth suddenly, and Dean saw him grimace. "You okay?" he asked.

Sam nodded and then his face crumpled and a hand clapped to his forehead.

"Sam!"

He felt rather than saw Ellen's approach, and then she was there, one hand on Sam's shoulder and the other pouring him a fresh glass of whiskey.

"What's happening to him?" Dean asked.

"Not now, Dean," she said quickly.

Whatever was happening to Sam seemed to end. His features evened out and his reached for the glass of whiskey with a shaking hand.

"What was that?" Dean asked.

Sam drained his glass. "Nothing."

"Sure as hell didn't look like nothing!"

Sam looked up at Ellen and a moment of silent conversation seemed to pass between them. Ellen looked worried and then she said, "I hate to break this up, but I need to lock the place down for the night. Dean, I'm sorry but I haven't got a spare bed for you. There's a motel on Main Street that a lot of hunters use. It has a night manager, so you'll get in easy enough."

Dean recognized the dismissal and it pissed him off. Something had obviously happened to Sam and he wanted to know what. "You expect me to just leave after that?"

"I do," Ellen said. "Sam needs to lie down."

If Sam was really about to lie down after that, Dean was the tooth fairy. Sam's expression was grim and whatever it had been had obviously taken a lot out of him, but he was not going to be sleeping for a long time yet.

"I can help," he said.

Sam shook his head. "You really can't. This is a family thing."

Dean felt the words like a blow to the chest. He _was_ family. They were brothers, dammit! They always were. No number of years apart would change that.

"Please, Dean," Ellen implored.

Dean realized he would get nothing else from either of them tonight and got to his feet. "I'll see you again?"

"Course you will," Ellen said, but it was Sam's answer he wanted.

Sam nodded without looking up.

"Okay," Dean said reluctantly.

Dean took his wallet from his pocket and slid out a business card. He dropped it onto the table and made for the door. As he pulled it open and stepped outside, he heard Ellen ask in a whisper, "What did you see?"

See! What the hell? He turned, almost decided to go back inside and demand answers, but a voice whispered to him, a familiar voice that he hadn't heard in the longest time. _"Give him a little time, son. He'll come back to you."_

Dean had no real choice but to obey. He walked to his bike and swung a leg over. He wouldn't bother with the motel. He'd make the trip home instead. He knew he'd get no sleep that night.

**So… How as that? We got some answers about Sam's god-awful scar and how he came to be in the hospital. That scene was a lot of fun to write—not only did I get to whump on Sam, but I got to write some John, too. That makes me all kinds of happy. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **

**Side note: Just as I was prepping this chapter to post, Carry On Wayward Son came on my playlist. It was like the fic gods knew what I was doing and approved. ;-)**


	12. Chapter 11

**Thank you Jenjoremy for the awesome beta job. Thanks also to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help outlining. Between these three ladies there is a readable chapter for you.**

* * *

_**Chapter Eleven**_

Sam let out a sigh of relief as the door swung closed behind Dean. It had been a tough and intense few hours, and he had shared more than he'd intended to. Some of it was Dean's right to know, whereas some he hadn't known he was going to say until the words were out of his mouth. He wasn't used to that. He was usually so in control. Control had been one of John Winchester's watchwords. You had to keep a lid on it at all times or you would find yourself in trouble.

He'd told Dean he'd see him again, and he was almost sure that was true. Dean had always been so damn stubborn, whether it was getting to watch what he wanted on a small motel TV or getting the prom queen away from her boyfriend. Sam had almost forgotten that detail about his brother. Dean would make sure he saw him again.

Ellen's hand was still on his shoulder, and she gave it a small squeeze, bringing his attention back to the present. "You okay, honey?" she asked.

"Will be," he answered. He was always okay. He had to be okay.

"What did you see?"

"A man being killed. I couldn't see who was doing the killing, it was too dark, but…" But he had seen the light go out of the man's eyes with death. He wouldn't say that though. That was sentimental and stupid.

"Can you stop it?"

Sam shook his head. "Not safely."

"A hunter?"

"I'm thinking so. The kill was fast, a knife straight to the heart, and there was no hesitation. Whoever did it, they're used to killing."

"And you think the vic was one of the special children?"

"Had to be. All my visions have been connected to Yellow-Eyes."

Ellen sighed. "Another dead to him."

"Maybe it's better," Sam mused.

"What do you mean?"

"We don't know what the end game is with us, the psychics, but it can't be anything good. Maybe one less in the world is a good thing. Maybe if we were all gone, the world would be safe."

"You included?" Ellen asked with a bite of anger in her tone.

"I'm one of them, Ellen. I'm just like them." He had just had another damn vision to prove it. He hadn't had one since the Guthrie hunt, when he'd gone up against some dude's honest to God evil twin. That still ranked as one of the weirdest cases he'd even taken.

"You save lives," she said doggedly. "That makes you one of the good guys."

Sam shrugged. "Does it? Seems to me it's a bit of a grey area. Anyway, I'm not going after this one. I won't be saving any lives if I get taken out because my little secret becomes general knowledge."

Ellen was quiet for a moment then she said, "I agree. I hate the fact there's more death because of that yellow eyed bastard, but I want you safe."

"I can take care of myself, Ellen."

"Doesn't mean you have to do it alone. We can help."

Sam got to his feet and picked up the half empty bottle of whiskey and glasses. "That's where you're wrong. I know you want to help, but I'm better off alone now." He put the bottle and glasses on the bar and walked back to his room, knowing he'd left a disappointed and probably pissed Ellen behind.

* * *

Sam was sitting at the table in his motel room, searching down likely places for the nest on his laptop. They had a rough idea of the town the vampires had taken up in but that was all. Gordon was good at the actual killing aspect of the job, but he wasn't too thorough when it came to research. He said he liked to follow his instincts, to get to a town and feel them out, but Sam preferred to go, armed and ready, straight to the place where they were holed up.

They were usually both lone hunters—as least Sam had been since John's death—but they'd teamed up for this hunt since the number of kills was larger than usual. Gordon tended to be arrogant as all hell and a little reckless to boot, but he wasn't suicidal. Dead hunters were no good to the world.

"I think I've found something," Sam said, enlarging the view on his screen. "There are a couple of old farmhouses on the outskirts of town that look promising."

"Why's it always a farmhouse?" Gordon asked in a musing tone. "Or a barn? The damn things have no standards."

Sam thought that was pretty rich coming from someone who lived out of his car and the occasional motel room. Sam at least had Ellen's to go when he had time between hunts; he had something resembling a home.

"Guess they like their privacy," he replied. "All the better for us. It'd be a hell of a thing to go into an apartment building armed with machetes."

Gordon grunted a laugh. "True. It does make hunting harder when you're dodging the cops at every turn.

Sam's phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message. It was from Jo: **Dean's been calling again. Mom's getting tired of** **being your voicemail.**

He sighed and dialed Jo's number. She answered after a couple rings. "At last, he speaks."

"What does Dean want?" Sam asked dourly.

"Uh, his brother? You know you could at least give him a call and let him know you're okay."

"I could," Sam said. He wouldn't though. That would involve a conversation, and he just wasn't ready for that. He could exchange words with Gordon because it was for the hunt. He could talk to Jo because she knew his limits for chatting—though she sometimes pushed them. Dean would probably want to talk about their father and Sam and all kinds of crap Sam wasn't interested in discussing.

He remembered a time in which Dean had been the nonverbal one and Sam the chatterbox, but that time had been and gone. Even though Dean had been doing his best to let Sam talk in his own time when they'd met, Sam had seen the questions dancing in his eyes. It hadn't been easy for him.

When Sam's thoughts turned to Dean, as they sometimes did these days, he wouldn't think of the emotional connotations of what had happened between them, then and now; he would think of the changes in his brother. Sam was more than aware that he himself had changed, more in the last few months than all the years before, but he hadn't expected Dean to change, too. He had always been cocky and sharp and damn frustrating at times, but now he seemed mature and self aware. A very different man to the teenager Sam had known.

"Are you going to?" Jo asked.

"No."

Jo groaned. "Maybe I should just give him your number and give our phone a rest."

"Do not give him my number," Sam said stiffly. "I am on a hunt and I don't need my phone ringing off the hook while I'm trying to work."

"Oooh, what are you hunting?" she asked.

"Nothing that would interest you."

"When are you going to accept that I'm just as capable at hunting as you are?" Jo asked in a mulish tone.

"About the same time you accept it's never going to happen. Look, Jo, I've got to head out. I'll come by when this job's over and I'll figure something out with Dean. Right now, I need to keep my head in the game."

"Fine," she huffed. "But you better be here."

"Goodbye, Jo."

Sam didn't give her a chance to respond before ending the call. It would piss her off, but he would deal with that later. Talking about Dean was one of his least favorite things, and he did have a job to do."

"Family drama?" Gordon asked.

"Nothing to worry about. I've taken care of it."

"Your brother?"

Sam's gaze snapped to him. "Dean. What do you know about it?"

Gordon shrugged. "Not much. Just that the prodigal Winchester has returned, soft as shit."

"Dean's not soft," Sam snapped, surprising even himself.

"Is that right? I heard he was quite the up-and-coming hunter back in the day. Word is that he's taken on an office job and mortgage now."

"And this word is coming from…?"

"Hunters talk," Gordon said laconically.

Sam shook his head, irritation rising in his chest. "You mean Ash talks."

Gordon didn't reply, which was confirmation enough for Sam. Next time he saw Ash he was going to knock him round the head with one of the PBR's he was so fond of. It might teach him to keep his ever-flapping mouth shut for a change as well as allow Sam to vent some of his annoyance.

"Dean's not soft," Sam said again. "He's just different. His life took a turn and he made the best if it." He was never usually this loquacious, not even with family. It was time to end the conversation. "It's almost noon. We should head out. We've got to check the farmhouses."

"Okay, but if that doesn't work out, we'll have to let them come to us. If we hang around long enough, looking appetizing, they will."

Sam flipped his laptop closed and got to his feet. "Let's get this done."

* * *

It turned out that the vampires weren't in either of the farmhouses Sam had tagged. They checked both out, almost getting pellets in their asses when it turned out one of the places wasn't abandoned after all and the farmer wasn't happy to find them poking around his property with machetes in hand. Luckily, he'd been a crap shot and other than some damage to the paintjob of Gordon's El Camino, they'd made it out okay. They'd booked it out of there in a hurry, though, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake, and holed up in a bar until dark.

Sam needed a real drink, badly, but he knew better than to go into a hunt smashed. He settled for a beer and another day of Gordon's unwelcome company. He wanted to be alone to think and to kill— simple enough goals—but the hunt wasn't finished and Sam was bound to see it through to the end, yet another of John Winchester's lessons. _"You do a job properly or you don't do it at all. Laziness costs lives." _

Gordon was getting them fresh drinks and Sam's eyes were skimming the quiet bar. His gaze settled on Gordon. He was talking with the bartender, and though Gordon looked completely relaxed, the bartender was tense as a coil. Sam turned his head slightly and watched out of the corner of his eye, focusing on what Gordon was saying to the man. It wasn't hard as the jukebox was silent and conversation was a murmur.

"Looking for some buddies of mine," Gordon was saying. "Well, more friends of a friend. I heard they were in town. They're a little odd, night owls if you know what I mean, and I'd bet my last buck they're squatting somewhere."

The bartender nodded, but his eyes were tight. "I know who you mean. They've set themselves up at Barker Farm. Real party animals."

"Well, who doesn't like a party?" Gordon asked with an uncharacteristic and false laugh.

"Can I get you another beer?" the bartender asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

"Make it two. Like I said, I do like a party."

Sam let his gaze return to his beer and he considered what he had seen. The man knew something, or possibly _was _something. They just had to find out what.

Gordon set two beers on the table and thumped down into his chair again. Sam nodded to him and then stood and went to the jukebox. He slipped in a dollar and set it to playing a Rolling Stones classic.

When he returned to the table, Gordon asked, "What do you think?" in a low voice.

"He's either one of them or he knows about them," Sam replied.

Gordon nodded. "My thinking, too. Do we follow or extract the information?"

"Whichever looks best when we get a chance," Sam said. "It's not like we can start swinging in here." He took a sip of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Either way, it looks like this hunt just got a lot easier."

* * *

Neither Sam nor Gordon were big talkers, but they played their parts well for the next hour or so. Talking about football—Sam had no interest in it but apparently Gordon did. Movies—Sam hadn't seen a movie that wasn't playing on motel cable for months but he managed well enough. And family—it meant everything, of course it did, unless you weren't sure if they were family anymore.

Finally, Sam noticed the bartender tying off a trash bag and making for a door at the back of the bar. He nodded to Gordon and they both got to their feet. Sam took point, leaving through the front and then jogging around back.

He paused at the corner and took a deep breath that almost became a gasp when a voice spoke.

"I can hear you, you know. Enhanced senses and all. You're a strange one. Your heart's calm."

Sam stepped around the corner, and came face-to-face with the bartender. It _was_ a vampire. Its secondary set of teeth was descended, making it look menacing.

"That's because I'm not scared," Sam said.

"Really?" the vampire asked. "You come here without a weapon and you're not even scared."

Sam shook his head. "I've faced worse. Besides,"—he pulled his switchblade from his pocket—"I'm not completely unarmed."

The vampire laughed. "What are you going to do with that? Tickle my ribs? That won't kill me."

"No," Sam agreed. "But I'm betting it'll hurt like a son of a bitch."

Sam stepped forward, tensed to attack, and the vampire matched him, moving forward so they were only a few feet apart. Then in a fast move that was nothing new to Sam, it lurched forward and gripped Sam around the throat. It shoved him against the wall, an arm pressed against Sam's neck, constricting his windpipe.

"Listen to me," the vampire snarled. "I am not what you're looking for. Me and mine don't hunt humans. We control ourselves."

"Sure you do," Sam rasped.

"We do," the vampire said emphatically. "We're not the ones killing. That was another nest moving through town. We took care of them, I swear."

Sam raised an eyebrow, the picture of calm despite the fact the lack of air was becoming a problem. He didn't have to suffer long though, as Gordon had just appeared behind the vampire, machete raised and ready to strike.

The vampire spun on its heel, releasing Sam, and grabbed Gordon instead. Sam fell forward to his knees, sucking in a breath and reaching for the machete where it had dropped. He got swiftly to his feet and swung it toward the vampire's neck, cutting through flesh and scraping bone. Gordon grinned as he pushed the vampire away from him.

"Now, you've got ten seconds to tell us where your nest is and we'll let you live," Gordon said.

"You'll kill them," the vampire said in a groan.

"Not if they don't need killing," Sam said. "We want to meet you all, check stories about this traveling nest. If they match up, we'll let you live."

The vampire's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"I'm a man of my word. Ten, nine, eight…" Gordon started as Sam shifted the machete slightly, sliding it against the bone.

"Merchant's Road," the vampire gasped. "We've got a place on Merchant's Road. I'll take you there. Now for the love of God get that thing out of me."

Sam locked eyes with Gordon and they nodded in unison. Sam pulled the blade free and tossed it to Gordon. With one smooth swoop, Gordon had the vampire's head falling to the floor.

"What do you know, I am a liar after all," Gordon said with amusement. "So, your trunk or mine?"

Sam wasn't amused. He'd known Gordon was going to kill it, but he hadn't really considered the inconvenience it was going to cause them to have to get rid of the body.

"Mine," Sam said. "But you're doing the body, and you better hope to hell no one sees us."

* * *

They got away with stowing the vampire by backing the car up and scanning the street before moving it.

"You think it was telling the truth?" Gordon asked.

Sam shrugged. "I'm thinking it's hard to think up a good lie when there's a machete buried in your neck. The location's probably good. As for the Twilight crap? No. Monsters kill. That's what they do. We need to be careful checking out the address though. I think you should hang here while I scope it out."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because if it did have a nest, they'll come here looking for him when he doesn't come back."

Gordon looked annoyed, but he conceded the point. They agreed that Sam would check the address from a distance and call in Gordon if it looked hopeful.

He enjoyed the short ride across town. It was good to have some quiet time to prepare for the rest of the hunt. The journey was too short, in fact. He soon came onto Merchant's Road and saw the cabin. It was at the end of a long dirt track, but it was easy to see with its windows burning with light.

He drove on a little way along the road, and stowed the car behind a small copse of trees before pulling out his phone and calling Gordon.

There was definite temptation to go it alone and get the hunt over with—he had a plan after all—but common sense kept him on the phone long enough to tell Gordon what he needed to know, and then he settled in for the wait.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the window and Gordon's face peered at him through the glass. Sam got out of the car and made for the trunk. He opened the trunk and lifted the false base to reveal his weapons.

Gordon sucked his teeth. "Well, your organization is crap but I can't fault the goods. Is that a hand grenade? Where the hell did that come from?"

"Dodgy army surplus on Main Street in Lincoln."

Gordon nodded. "Thanks for the tip. Now, I gotta ask, what are you planning on doing with it?"

Sam smiled grimly. "I am planning on easing the workload a little."

"You do realize we need them decapitated for it to stick, right?"

"Yeah, but it'll sure as hell set them running."

Gordon laughed harshly. "Man, Sammy, you've got a twisted mind."

"Don't call me Sammy." He started toward the cabin at a run, Gordon on his heels.

He was more than aware that the vampires would hear them coming, the last one had proven that, so he went for speed rather that stealth. "You take the front," he said in a whisper and then ran to the back of the cabin.

There was no rear door, so he smashed a window with the hilt of his machete, pulled the pin and tossed the grenade inside before running for the front of the cabin. There was an almighty crash, and Sam was pelted by planks of wood that had made up the walls as he ran. He heard screams and a roar that could only have been Gordon voicing his excitement, and then he was there. There was already one downed vampire on the hard-packed dirt ground, and Gordon was swinging for another.

The other vampires—Sam counted five living—were running, and he set off after them. He caught one by the arm, and within a moment, its head had joined the ones of its buddies on the ground. He took down another and then roved the area for the next. Gordon was just finishing up with a pretty female with long dark hair—she was talking to the moment her head parted company with her shoulders. Surprisingly quickly, the battle was over.

Sam grabbed the ankle of one of the dead vampires and started dragging it back to the burning cabin. He hefted it over his shoulder and then dumped in directly into the flames, quickly followed by its head.

"Sam, that was awesome," Gordon said, carrying over one of his own kills. "I'm getting some of those grenades next opportunity I get and using them from here on out."

Sam smiled slightly. He'd never tested out a hand grenade before, but there was no denying it was effective as a method of clearing a place.

He turned away and made for another body when suddenly a white-hot knife seemed to sear through his skull and his legs weakened. He had all of a moment to think of the terrible timing before he was swept into a vision.

It was himself. He was standing in a small room with two others, a gun in his hand pointed at the head of a third person—a kid, who was tied to a chair. The kid was babbling desperately, "I swear, it's not in me, it's not in me! Don't, don't. Please!" even as Sam pulled the trigger.

The vision passed and Sam opened his eyes. He was surprised to find he was on his knees, and he quickly got to his feet.

"You okay?" Gordon asked, and the way he said it made Sam think it wasn't the first time he'd asked the question.

"Yeah. Fine. Just a migraine thing," Sam lied. "They come on strong sometimes."

Gordon's eyes narrowed. "Didn't looked like a migraine."

"It was," Sam said. "One too many blows to the head. Look, man, I hate to duck out before the job's really over, but I need to get out of here before it fully develops. You think you can take care of the rest?"

"Yeah, sure," Gordon said. "You take care of yourself. Thanks for coming in on this with me."

"No problem," Sam said, already walking away.

He knew later that he should have ended Gordon there and then. He'd had seen too much and he knew too much already, but he hadn't known, and that was one of the greatest mistakes he would ever make.

* * *

**So… Gordon's a nosy git and Sam's off to Oregon. The hand grenades were fun. I'd love to see our boys using them in canon. **

**Sam's a little more well informed about the special children in this story, as he had his father's help, and John knew more about them than he shared in canon. Also, you might find things — namely hunts — happening in a different order (sooner/later) than the show. I don't usually like messing with details like that but I figured what the hell? It's been a crazy story from the beginning, why not have things work out my way?**

**Rec time... If you've read any of my other stories you've probably seen me pimping this verse before. Feel free to ignore if you have, but if you're new to me, pay attention while I share news of my absolute favorite SPN author – Agelade. Her verse is called Lustra and it's incredible. It's a S9 AU and when she says AU she means it. It's so different to anything I've ever read before. She takes aspects of canon I've barely thought of and weaves them into incredible stories — Episode 8: Sanguis Sanctus is a prime example of that. The verse starts with Earth Angel and move through to the new WIP Episode 9: Dirty Water Dying. I cannot recommend these stories enough. There is something for everyone in them, no matter what you like in a fic. Do yourself a favor and read them. And while you're there, leave a review. They are seriously underappreciated for the excellence of these stories. A link to her profile can be found under my Favorite Authors. **

**Summary:**_ Earth Angel — Episode 1 in Lustra, a Supernatural Season 9 AU. Sam Winchester has made his choice in the little abandoned church at the end of that lake-side lane. Not for the first time, Dean can't stop him from throwing his life away. But things don't always go as planned, especially not for the Winchesters, and now they have more than one mess to clean up._

**Until next time…**

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	13. Chapter 12

**Thanks to Jenjoremy for the awesome beta job. She truly makes the story so much better with her hard work. Also thanks to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for helping me outline and write the chapter. Love you ladies.**

* * *

_**Chapter Twelve**_

Sam had known he had to act on the vision because of what the kid had said: _'It's not in me.' _He knew that whatever _it_ was, it was something he needed to be there for. His instincts had told him that it would be a demon; he certainly hadn't been expecting it to be a demonic virus that turned people into murderous psychopaths.

Not for the first time, he wished his dad was there to back him up. He wasn't though. He never would be again. So Sam had to suck it up and get on with it, which currently meant putting this kid down before the virus could manifest and make him start killing. The ropes wouldn't hold him long once it kicked in.

He strode into the small room they'd locked him down in, his gun gripped tightly, and faced the kid down. The others were in there already, the doctor, the nurse, and the former marine, and as he entered, their eyes followed him.

The kid started babbling again, tears streaming down his face, but Sam didn't hear his words. He blocked them out as he raised the gun.

"You sure about this?" the marine dude asked.

Sam nodded but didn't speak. He took a deep breath and half breathed out just before he pulled the trigger—just as his father had taught him to do all those years ago. _"Your instinct is going to be to flinch and gasp, Sammy, but that'll screw up your shot. You've got to stay calm and in control of the gun or it will turn on you."_

The bullet went into the kid's forehead, dead center, and his head rocked back, but there was something wrong. There was no blood splatter.

Sam heard gasps and the marine was demanding to know what was happening, but the question was answered—for Sam at least—as the kid raised his head again, the bullet hole already fading, and his eyes flashed back.

"Demon," Sam spat, both as acknowledgment and explanation.

The demon grinned. "Yeah. Had you going though, didn't I, Winchester? What with the tears and all. Gotta say, I didn't think you'd have the stones to actually kill me. I guess all the rumors are true after all."

"What rumors?" Sam asked.

"That you've become unhinged since Daddy bought it. That your psycho points have ratcheted up to Manson levels—not that you were that sane to begin with. Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but you know how it is, things to do, people to kill." It flexed its arms and the ropes around its chest broke and slipped away.

Sam stepped back, arms held wide to cover the young nurse. She gripped the back of his shirt tightly, and Sam could feel the vibration of her trembling.

"You think you can protect her?" the demon asked. "That's almost funny." It stepped forward into Sam's space. "You can't protect anyone Sam. All you do is get them killed. Like Daddy."

Sam snarled and made to punch the demon, but it was already gone.

"Where did it go?" the doctor asked.

Sam checked the room needlessly and shrugged. "No idea."

He stowed his gun into the back of his pants again then walked out of the room and back to the table where they'd set up the Molotov cocktail fixings. He heard the door click behind him and turned to see the nurse watching him with a strange expression as she slipped the lock over. He had a feeling a 'What-just-happened' conversation was coming. He headed her off. "I need more alcohol. Do you know where the doc keeps it?"

"Oh, I know," she said in a strange voice. So far she'd been scared out of her wits, but now she sounded eerily calm. She was either about to kill him or attempt to seduce him. "You won't be needing alcohol though, Winchester." Kill it was then.

She launched herself forward, hands clawed, at the same moment Sam drew his gun. He fired off three shots in quick succession into her chest. She dropped like a stone, her breath gurgling sickeningly before stopping.

There was pounding on the door and Sam saw the doc's and marine's faces at the window. Sam sighed as he crossed the room and opened the door.

"What the hell happened?" the doc asked.

"She was infected," Sam said simply. "Tried to kill me. Now, where do you keep the alcohol?"

* * *

Dean noticed the car parked outside his house as he wandered into his dining room, a plate of pasta in his hand. At first he thought it was Sam, but then he noticed in the darkness the paint was deep red. The driver's seat was empty, and while it was entirely possible its owner was just visiting one of Dean's neighbors, it felt wrong. His instincts were singing and his father's voice was whispering to him. _"Never ignore them, son. Instincts are the only useful thing we share with the apes. It's what keeps them and us alive."_

He considered that advice as sat down at the table, seeming absorbed in his meal, while his gaze swept over the street, searching for something amiss. He couldn't see anything though. He was as close to safe as it was possible to be, locked inside his house, but he still didn't feel settled. The pasta tasted like rubber in his mouth, but he forced it down. He was just wiping the plate with bread when the knock at the door came. Actually, it was more like a punch to the door rather than a knock.

He stood and walked through to the hall, tense as all hell. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Name's Gordon," a voice shouted back. "I'm looking for Dean Winchester." It took him a moment to place the voice, as he'd only heard it once before, but when he did, his heart quickened. It was the man from the Roadhouse, the one who had interrupted his conversation with Ellen.

"You've found him," he called back.

"Good. Now, are you going to open the door? We need to talk." "

"About what?"

"Your brother. Look, Dean, I didn't want to have to be the person to tell you this, but I've got bad news."

Dean unbolted the door and yanked it open. Gordon stood under the porch light, his face solemn and his eyes downcast.

"What's wrong with Sam?" Dean asked.

"Can I come in? This isn't the sort of conversation we should have on a doorstep. You should be sitting down."

Fear curdling Dean's gut, he stepped back to let him enter. Gordon looked around as he came in, taking in everything with hunters' eyes.

"Sam," Dean prompted.

"Yeah, Sam," Gordon said solemnly. "We were on a hunt together. Vampires. And he took a nasty hit. Look, Dean, he's not good. He's in the hospital and the docs are talking about brain damage. Ellen's already there, and I said I'd come get you. I thought you should be there, have a chance to see him…"

'_One more time.'_ The words were unspoken but Dean heard them anyway. He sucked in a shaky breath. His legs felt weak and his hand came up to the wall to brace himself. This couldn't be happening. He'd just found him again.

"I'm sorry, man," Gordon said in a far gentler voice than Dean was expecting from him. "Do you want me to drive you?"

Dean nodded, barely aware of what he was doing. He didn't even bother with a jacket. He just grabbed his keys and wallet from the table and followed Gordon out to the car. Gordon opened the door for him and he allowed himself to slide into the seat. On any other occasion he would have appreciated the beauty of the car, but his mind was filled with Sam.

Gordon got in beside him. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Not your fault," Dean said dully.

"No, but this is."

Gordon spun in his seat to face Dean and his fist snapped out, delivering a heavy blow to Dean's temple. He was unconscious before he could even register pain.

* * *

Sam didn't go back to the Roadhouse. He was exhausted from days without proper sleep and the tension of the events in Rivergrove had done a number on him, so he wanted peace and quiet to wind down before moving on, and he wouldn't get that there. Jo would want to know about the hunt and Ellen would want to know about the vision, and neither would care that he didn't want to talk about it.

There was a motel at the edge of Broken Bow that he knew, and he directed his path there. There was a slightly nicer place in the next town where he'd stayed a couple times before, but he had a nodding acquaintance with the owners there, and he didn't want to see them now in all his scarred neck glory. He didn't want to deal with the questions. He would rather deal with the morbid curiosity in the eyes of a stranger.

His expectations were met. The motel manager was a heavyset guy with a pockmarked face and bloodshot eyes that widened when he looked at Sam. Sam dealt with him quickly and curtly, slapping money down on the counter and glaring until he took the hint and checked him in to the corner unit.

The room was small and decorated pea green and brown. There were the usual suspicious stains on the carpet and bedclothes, but it was quiet and exactly what Sam needed. He didn't even bother to undress. He just tucked his gun under the pillow and flopped down onto the bed. He was asleep within a minute.

It felt like only seconds later when Sam snapped awake. At first he didn't know what had woken him, but then the hammering on the door started up again. Sam slid a hand under his pillow and gripped the handle of his gun. He clicked off the safety and got to his feet. The hammering stopped again only to be replaced with a woman's voice he didn't recognize. "Open the door! This is life and death!"

His nerves singing and his muscles bunched, Sam crossed the room and unbolted the door. He eased it open, the barrel of the gun pressing against the wood. If it looked like trouble, he'd get a shot in before she, whoever she was, could. He was slower only than one man when it came to taking the shot when it was needed.

Her hand was raised to knock again when Sam pulled the door open quickly.

"Finally!" she said huffily.

Sam's eyes raked her up and down. She was small with short brown hair and full cheeks. She didn't appear to be armed, but Sam was taking no chances. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her into the room, slamming the door closed behind her. He spun her, checking her back for a knife or gun and then her ankle boots for something stowed there.

"What the hell?" she asked in a scandalized voice.

Finding she was clear of weapons, Sam stepped back. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

She swiveled to face him and then her eyes widened. "Holy crap! You've got a gun!"

"Of course I've got a gun. Why don't you?"

"Uh, because I'm _normal!_ I don't go toting a gun around with me."

"You're not a hunter?"

"A hunter? What the hell?" she asked again.

Sam countered with a question of his own. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your life. I hope. I mean I drove all night to get here, and you probably won't believe me anyway, but I had to try. So, yeah, I'm saving your life."

Sam glowered at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Okay." She pushed her hair back from her face and took a deep breath and then the words spewed out of her. "This is going to sound crazy. I'm aware of that, okay? I know this is cracked, but I had to do something, and… Do you have to have that thing in your hand while I say this? You're kinda freaking me out."

Sam stowed the gun in the back of his pants. "Better?"

"Not remotely." She shook her head. "Never mind. Okay. Back to the crazy. You're going to die."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Soon or do I have time to see The Grand Canyon first?"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me," she said in a groan. "It's crazy. I know it's crazy. Stupid dreams."

Sam's heart stuttered. "Dreams?"

She perched on the edge of his bed and hid her face in her hands. Her voice was muffled as she said. "I had this dream. A guy got stabbed in it. Stabbed dead. I thought it was just a freaky dream, right, too much cheese before bed or something, but then I see this in the newspaper." She lowered her hands and pulled a sheet of newsprint out of her pocket then passed it to Sam. He took it and his eyes fell on the photograph accompanying the article. It was the man from the vision he'd had. His name was Scott Carey, and he'd been stabbed through the heart, just as Sam had seen. Police were appealing for witnesses.

"You saw his death?" Sam asked.

"Yeah!"

"And now you've seen mine?"

She nodded emphatically. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. I was sleeping last night and I had a dream of you getting blown up!"

Sam ran a finger over the line of his scar unconsciously as he considered. "Don't suppose I was the one with the grenade in my hand when it happened, was I?" he asked.

"Grenade? No. I just saw you walk into this building, a rundown shack like in the movies, and boom! Blown up."

"Did you see anything else?" he asked intensely.

"Maybe."

Sam stared at her, waiting for more, but it didn't come. "Talk!" he said harshly.

"There were these other two guys. One really hot, the other kinda scary. The hot one was tied to a chair and the scary one was… it was like he was waiting for something."

"Tell me about the man," Sam commanded.

"Well, he like I said, he was scary. He was African-American and with a scar down his cheek. He had a long ass knife in his hands…"

"Not him!" Sam snapped. "The… other one." He was not going to say 'hot'.

"Oh. Well, he had light brown hair, amazing green eyes, this jawline to die for and—"

"Okay, that's enough." Sam said. He knew who was tied up now, and he had a pretty good idea of who had done the tying. Gordon Damned Walker.

His phone was out of his pocket and he was dialing before he was even aware of making the decision. Gordon answered with a cheerful, "Sammy."

"What the hell are you doing Gordon?" he asked.

"Just chilling," Gordon said. "Why? Got a hunt for me?"

"What are you doing with _Dean_?"

"Ahhh," Gordon said lazily. "I knew you'd work it out on your own with those freaky vision things."

"Let him go," Sam growled.

"Absolutely. Just as soon as you come get him. I just want to talk, Sam. A simple exchange of information. I want to know the deal with your visions, maybe make something of them that can help me out on a hunt, and then I'll let Dean go."

He was obviously lying—the crazy girl had seen Sam die after all—but it sounded like Gordon didn't know that, so he'd play along.

"Where are you?"

"I'll text you the address," Gordon said happily. "You'll be real glad you came."

"I'm sure," Sam said dryly and then ended the call.

He waited a moment and then his phone beeped with an incoming message. The address was close; he could make it in less than an hour.

He grabbed his jacket and made for the door, but then the girl spoke up. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Going to get my… going to get Dean." He couldn't bring himself to say the word yet.

"That's the guy I saw in my dream, right?"

Sam nodded mutely, picking up his duffel and pulling the door open.

"The dream in which I saw you die?"

""Yes, look…"

"Ava," she supplied helpfully.

"Look, Ava, I've got to go."

"But you're going to die!" she said in a higher pitch than most humans could achieve.

"Don't think so," Sam said grimly. "But someone is."

He walked out the door and let it slam behind him.

* * *

When Dean woke, he was tied to a chair in the middle of a grungy room with wood plank walls and a dim unshaded light bulb above his head.

"Welcome back. Thought you were going to sleep forever," Gordon said. "I must've tapped you too hard. I'm sorry about that. My problem's not with you. It's all about your brother. Unfortunately, you were the only bait available that wasn't protected by a bar full of hunters."

"My brother? What have you done to Sam?" Dean asked.

"Nothing yet. He's just fine. Well, he's fine for now. When I'm done with him he'll be so much dust in the wind."

Despite what Gordon was saying, Dean felt a wave of relief. There were no vampires. No nasty hit. No brain damage. All there was was an apparently psychotic hunter with a hate on for his brother. And Sam could handle that. He'd been trained by the best. He wouldn't fall into this trap.

"You're seriously underestimating my brother," he said. "He won't come."

"That's where you're wrong. See, we had a little talk while you were sleeping, and he thinks he's coming for a little chat about his visions."

Visions! Was that what had happened at the Roadhouse? "He's not that stupid," Dean said.

"Maybe not. He is pretty smart," he conceded. "But he's got a weakness, just like everyone else. You're his weakness. Family. We _did_ take that vamp hunt, and we had a talk about you, more specifically the fact you've turned into a marshmallow in your time out of the life. Sammy got all defensive over you. You don't do that unless you care."

Dean considered Gordon's words. He had to be lying. Nothing Sam had shown him when they'd met last time led him to believe that Sam gave a damn about him. It was all about getting a job done for him. Dean had found him, therefore he deserved a few answers as a reward, the way you'd reward a dog with a treat for a neat trick.

"Now," Gordon went on, tossing something from one hand to the other. Dean realized, with a thrill of horror, that it was a grenade. "I've got a little something to set up for your brother, a welcoming gift of sorts, so you stay here, test the ropes if you like, and I'll get to work."

He ambled out of the room, leaving Dean to his horror. He did test the ropes binding him, but they were too tight to make even a little progress on freeing himself. He was there for the duration—until Sam came for him. If Sam came for him.

After a few minutes, Gordon came back into the room and came over to Dean. "I hate to do this, I was enjoying our chat, but I don't want you tipping little brother off when he comes." He tied a bandana around Dean's mouth, gagging him.

"Heard it from a demon, you see," Gordon said. "I was exorcising the thing and it started talking, trying to distract me from what I was doing. Told me about these special children. Even named names. Imagine my surprise when Sammy's name came up. It told me Sam had honest to God visions of the future. There was this other guy who could electrocute people with his touch. I already took electro guy down, now it's Sam's turn. After him, I'll hunt down the next, after taking a break to pour one out by his pyre with the other hunters. Not that there will be a lot to burn. Few scraps I'm guessing. It's a respect thing, you know."

Dean shook his head. The man was insane. Sam was going to kill him.

"You disagree?" Gordon asked. "You don't think I will? I always do. We all do. Only one I've ever missed was your daddy's, and that's because Sam made a point of doing it alone. Sam owed it to him, see, after what daddy did for him."

"What did he do?" Dean asked, but his voice was so muffled by the bandana that he couldn't even understand the words himself.

Gordon seemed to know what he was going to ask anyway though. "Daddy made a sacrifice for Sammy. Gave up his—" He paused. "Do you hear that? I think someone's here."

Dean listened, too. He heard a creak and then the sound of scrabbling he'd have bet anything was someone getting to work on a lock.

"Brace yourself," Gordon whispered. "He's going out with a bang."

Dean tried to shout, to warn Sam, but he couldn't make himself heard properly. He was still shouting when the bomb went off. The blast made the floor shake.

"Sam! Sammy!" he bellowed indistinctly.

"No, not yet, wait for it," Gordon said quietly.

Heart pounding, Dean listened desperately for the creak of a floorboard, a breath drawn, anything that would tell him Sam was still alive. That was when the second bomb went off.

"That'll do it," Gordon said in a satisfied voice, getting to his feet. "Excuse me while I investigate my good work.

Tears streamed down Dean's face, soaking into the fabric of his gag. He was shuddering so badly he could almost feel his teeth rattling in his jaw. Sam was dead. Sam was gone.

Suddenly an achingly familiar voice spoke from the room behind him. Dean's heart leapt and he sucked in a breath around the bandana.

"Nice try, Gordon." There was a gunshot and then the sound of something heavy thumping to the ground.

Dean heard footsteps and then someone behind him was untying the gag. "Sam?" he asked when his mouth was freed.

"Yeah," Sam's tired voice answered.

"Oh, thank God," Dean breathed. The ropes fell away from his chest and he lurched to his feet, turning to face Sam. There were small cuts on his face from where the shrapnel must have hit, and he looked tense still, but he was wonderfully alive. "I thought…" Dean trailed off.

Sam shook his head. "I'm not. He is though. Bastard."

Dean reached for Sam's shoulder, needing to touch him, to reassure himself it was real, that Sam was okay, but Sam stepped back. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Later, as the sun set and the sky darkened, Dean and Sam stood beside the pyre of Gordon Walker. Sam lit a book of matches and tossed it onto the gas soaked wood. Flames leapt up and licked around the base, catching the branches and heating the air.

Sam took a hipflask from his pocket and took a swig. He held it out to Dean without looking at him. Dean took it, sipped a little, and asked, "Why are we doing this, Sam? He tried to kill you."

Sam nodded. "He did. But he was a hunter before that. He saved lives. This is what he deserves."

"A funeral with the people he tried to kill?"

"It's more than that. This is how it ends for every hunter. We go down in flames." He smiled slightly. "Also, it'll keep the bastard from haunting us."

Dean swallowed hard. "Thank you, Sam, for coming for me."

Sam shrugged. "It's what I do."

Dean smiled a little sadly. "Yeah. I guess it is."

* * *

**So… Ding Dong, Gordon's dead. I **_**hated **_**his character with passion, and it was so good to have Sam put him down. Hope you enjoyed. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	14. Chapter 13

**Thanks to Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and top Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all their help and support. These ladies really go above and beyond for me and the story.**

* * *

_**Chapter Thirteen**_

When they had finished dealing with Gordon's body, Dean followed Sam back toward the cabin where he'd been held hostage. It looked unsteady, like it was going to fall down after the dual explosions. Dean was relieved when Sam went straight to the Impala to stow his tools in the trunk. Dean stepped up behind him, wanting to see whether it still held the same wealth of weapons it had in his father's time, but Sam slammed it closed before he could. Dean was disappointed and confused, but he didn't comment.

He ran a hand over the smooth paintwork of the car though, remembering, appreciating the chance to be with this piece of his youth. He felt Sam's eyes on him, and when he looked up, Sam was almost smiling. Dean wondered if he was aware of how big a moment this was for Dean or if he was just amused.

"You want to drive?" Sam asked.

"Seriously?" Dean asked, excitement fluttering in his stomach. "You don't mind?"

Sam shrugged. "It's just a car, Dean."

That wasn't remotely true. It was _their_ car. John Winchester's car. It was—had been—home. Sam knew that, too. His body language was all blocked off—chin down and arms crossed—but he couldn't change what was in his eyes.

"I'm tired anyway," Sam said. "I'd probably wrap the car around a tree."

Now that Dean looked properly, he could easily see that Sam did look exhausted. He'd been distracted before by the cuts all over his face from the shrapnel. He hadn't noticed the dark shadows under his eyes or the fact that, beneath the cuts, his skin was almost grey.

"You look like hell. What happened?"

"You mean before the grenades?" Sam asked with a wry look. "Vampires followed by demonic virus in small town Oregon and some crazy lady waking me up when I managed to finally get a bed."

"Crazy lady?"

"Long story. Point is, I'm tired, so you taking the wheel for a while would actually be doing me a favor." He held out the keys and Dean almost snatched them from his hand. After all this time, Dean was getting behind the wheel of the car he had once called Baby.

The seat cradled him like an old lover when he slid in, and he ran his hands lovingly over the wheel. It was all the same: the smell of leather, gun oil and something indefinable that was all home to Dean.  
Sam slid in beside him and shifted his tall frame in the seat into what still looked like an uncomfortable position.

"Where are we heading?" Dean asked. "Roadhouse?"

"That depends," Sam said. "When you have you got to get back to work?" There was something almost disapproving in Sam's tone.

"What day is it?" Dean asked. "I kinda lost track between the kidnapping and concussion."

"Early hours Sunday."

"Then I should probably head back home. I've got to be in work tomorrow for a meeting."

Sam nodded. "To your place then."

Dean turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. The sound was achingly familiar and it did a real number on Dean's heart rate. He was sure Sam could hear it pounding, too. Self-conscious, he flipped on the tape deck and _Stairway To Heaven _started playing. Before an entire lyric could be sang, Sam reached over, ejected the tape and threw it onto the backseat. "I hate that song," he said bitterly.

"Okay," Dean said quietly, feeling the tension in the air. "We'll leave it off a while."

Sam nodded, ducked lower in his seat, and stared out of the windshield.

* * *

It was three hour drive back to Fremont, and they spent it in silence. Dean opened his mouth a dozen times to speak then quickly snapped it shut again. He had questions for Sam, questions that needed answering, but he stowed them a little longer, remembering Sam was still essentially one of his skittish kids.

When Dean pulled up in front of his house, dawn was just lighting the sky. He wondered if Sam would come in. A part of him hoped he would, he wanted to show him his home, but the other part was leery of letting Sam see that much of him, the evidence of how different they were.

"You coming in?" he asked.

Sam considered for a moment before asking, "You got beer?"

"It's early, but yeah, I have."

Sam shrugged. "It's five o'clock somewhere, and it's still night for me."

"Okay," Dean said, climbing out. He walked slowly across his drive and up his porch steps, feeling rather than hearing Sam behind him. He was wondering whether Sam would turn and leave at any given moment. He wasn't sure how he'd feel if he did.

He unlocked the door, though, and Sam followed him in. Dean watched him, wanting to get some idea of what he was thinking from his expression, but Sam's face was poker straight. He led him into the living room and gestured to the couch. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll get you that beer."

Sam sat down on the edge of the couch, looking ready to bolt at any moment. He strolled into the kitchen and retrieved two beers from the fridge. He popped their tops off and then paused. Sam was here, in his home, and the worst part was that he didn't know what happened next. Would he be able to make Sam talk, or would it be awkward silence? He wanted to talk, he wanted to ask his questions, but he was so leery of driving him away.

Sucking it up, he walked back into the living room. "Hope Bud's okay," he started. "It's all I've…" He trailed off as he caught sight of Sam. He was fast asleep. He'd leaned back against the cushions and his chin was lolling on his chest. The hard lines of his face were softened, and Dean could see the little brother he remembered.

Dean just stared at him for a moment, taking it in, before realizing that was creepy. He set the beers down on the coffee table and picked up a blanket from the back of the couch, then hesitated. Sam hadn't been big on contact lately, and he didn't want to wake him. As he laid the blanket over the back of the couch again, something occurred to him. Sam only slept when he was safe. He hadn't been able to drop off when Dean wasn't there when they were kids, even if Dean was only at the soda machine, because he needed Dean to keep him safe. Maybe that was different now, maybe Sam was just so tired he'd crashed against his will, or maybe, just maybe, he did feel safe here.

* * *

Dean drank his beer, then another and another, sitting at his table and flipping through case notes of a kid he was meeting for the first time the next day. The case had come to him from another city, and it made for grim reading. The boy had been through a lot.

He was on his fourth beer and feeling the buzz when he heard Sam shifting on the couch. He glanced up, sure he was waking, but his eyes were still closed. His breath was coming fast though. Dean thought he knew what was coming, having counseled Sam through the aftermath of nightmares before as a kid. Sure enough, Sam began to mumble and his head twisted away from an invisible something.

When he was young, these dreams were about losing their father and the things they hunted. What horrors would there be in his mind to haunt him now?

Sam moaned and Dean made his way over to the couch slowly. Standing just far enough away to be out of Sam's reach in case he started swinging, he said, "Sam, wake up, man. It's just a dream."

Sam didn't seem to hear him. His moans grew louder and his head tossed back and forth. "Dad!" The word ripped from Sam and his eyes flew open. He flung an arm out as if knocking away an invisible attacker, and his gazed roved the room, coming to rest on Dean. He looked a little wild, and Dean was sure he wasn't entirely aware of where he was.

"You okay?" Dean asked, hoping his voice would ground him.

Sam nodded and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Fine."

"You had a nightmare."

"Yeah, I know."

"Want to talk about it?"

Sam shook his head and leaned forward to grab the beer from the table.

"That's probably flat by…"

Sam was already downing the bottle, his adam's apple bobbing. He finished it and gasped.

"That help?" Dean asked.

"Not as much as you'd think."

"Want another?"

"That'd be good."

Dean retrieved the beer from the fridge and delivered it to Sam. He didn't down it this time; he took a deep swig and then held it between his knees in one hand, the picture of relaxation.

Dean was buzzed, and he was aware that it wasn't the ideal time for this conversation, but the strain of watching Sam's nightmare had made him more eager than ever to know the full story. "You were dreaming about Dad." It wasn't a question.

"Was I? I don't remember."

"What happened to him?" Dean asked.

"He died," Sam said tonelessly, as if commenting on the death of a distant relation's puppy. "Doesn't matter."

"It matters to _me," _Dean said emphatically.

"Maybe another time," Sam said.

A wave of annoyance swept through Dean, borne no doubt of the ill-advised beers combined with Sam's evasion. He had a right to know. John was his father, too.

"Fine, tell me about these visions," he said.

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Dean's annoyance grew. "You damn well do. Gordon told me about them. Hell, I'm pretty sure I even saw you have one at the Roadhouse."

"No."

Sam's eyes were dark. Dean had a feeling that was how Sam operated these days, intimidating people to get out of things he didn't want to do. He'd seen it attempted before in the kids at work. They weren't nearly as good at it as Sam.

"You owe me," Dean said quietly.

Sam snorted. "I owe you nothing."

"Really? I was just knocked out and kidnapped because of you. I had my ass tied to a chair by some psycho hunter. I thought you _died_, Sam. Do you have any idea what that felt like?"

Sam got to his feet and made for the door. Dean's anger surged. "Fine. Leave. But know this, you're a damn coward. You can face off against all kinds of crap monsters, sure but you can't give me a straight answer to things I have a right to know.

Sam spun on his heel. "You're giving me crap about leaving? Seriously? You of all people."

"I didn't leave you!" Dean shouted, his heart pounding. He hadn't been this angry in years. He'd probably never been this angry before. He knew his reaction wasn't equal to the situation, but he was just so frustrated. He'd been doing his best with Sam, putting everything he'd ever learned into practice, and it hadn't worked. He was done going easy on him. They were going to have this conversation. He was _owed_ this conversation.

"Really?" Sam asked sardonically. "Because I've got a pretty good memory, and I don't remember you being around for the past eleven years. You weren't there for me, and you weren't there for Dad. We needed you, but you were gone!"

Dean stepped forward, hands fisted. "I didn't leave you! He left me. _You_ left me. I waited for you for every one of those years, making myself as available as possible, and you didn't come for me. You could have. You could have looked, but you made the choice not to. You were a kid then, but you've been an adult a long time, and you didn't look!"

"Why would I? You weren't there for me. Why would I want to be there for you?"

"I had no choice!" Dean shouted. The more voluble his anger was, the quieter Sam became. Not because he was cowed by Dean, but because he was calm. This kind of fighting was nothing new to him. "He left _me_, Sam. He drove off and abandoned me because he was pissed. I made one mistake, just one, and he dumped me because of it. I was sixteen. What kind of sixteen-year-old doesn't make mistakes? He was a damn coward, too. He didn't want to face me, so he walked away from me. He didn't care."

Sam's hands fisted and his voice became lower than ever. "You have _no _idea what he went through. You think he was a coward because he left you? You're wrong. He left you so you could have a better life. He heard all about how good your life was away from us, so he let you have it. He could have torn you away, dragged you back in, but he let you go for your own good."

Dean absorbed the words, unsure whether to trust them or not. The idea that John had left him for his own good was almost unbelievable to him, but it did make sense in a sick kind of way. Bobby had mentioned something about it all those years ago, but Dean had disregarded it. Sonny had said he told John how well he was doing at the home—acing school and winning prizes—but he had also said he'd told him he'd lose Sam. Which was the real reason he'd left?

"You have no idea how lucky you are," Sam said, gesturing around the room. "You have this life, this home. I've never had that. I've had motels and Ellen's and hunts. That's all I've ever known. He dragged me all over the country, week after week, or else he left me behind so he could go take care of other people. I was just a kid! You were gone, and I was all alone!" He stopped, cleared his throat, and then went on. "I wanted this. I wanted out. I wanted college and a home and a family. But I never had a chance, because the hunt came first. The demon came and we _had to_ take it out. I spent the last four years of my life chasing it down, and when we finally had a weapon, when we were so close, it all slipped away. I was almost killed for that fight!"

"I'm sorry for that," Dean said, calming now at Sam's confession. "I would have been there, but I couldn't be, and it wasn't my fault. He walked away from me and didn't look back."

Sam laughed bitterly. "He looked back all right. He just didn't _come_ back. He must have tracked you from the minute he left."

Dean sucked in a breath. "He followed me?"

"He left me a note," Sam said. "Before he died, he left a note with your address. He knew where you were. He just didn't tell me until it was too late."

Dean wasn't sure whether he was more shocked or angry. That John had followed him all those years without making contact had him feeling pissed as well as sad. Why hadn't he come to the door? It would have meant so much. It would have told Dean that he cared, even though he'd left him. "He actually cared," he breathed, not aware he was speaking until he'd already released the words into the world.

Sam's voice became almost mournful. Dean was sure he had no control over it as he released his feelings for what was probably the first time in forever. "Do you know how many times he told me he cared outright?" he asked. "Once. And he couldn't even do it in person. He left me that note, a damn note, telling me, and it wasn't even for me alone. It was for us both. After everything I gave up, after what he did for me, he still couldn't let it be about me."

"Sam," Dean stepped forward, hand outstretched with no conscious idea of what he was going to do with it. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apologies."

"Then want do you want?" Dean asked. "Do you want this still, this life? Because I can help you get out. You can go to college and do what you want with your life. He's gone now, Sam. You can live the life you want."

"How?" Sam asked. "I save lives. How can I walk away from that?"

"Hunting isn't the only way to lives. There are other things that matter too."

Sam looked doubtful, spurring Dean on.

"Have you ever dealt with a suicidal teenage girl? I have. I've spent hours with one, talking her down and making her see the world's worth living in. I saved her life. She's still out there now, living, because of what I did, making her see. That's something."

Sam sighed, the anger seeming to be leaving him now. Dean was sure he'd never spoken so openly about what had happened to him and what he had lost. The people he shared his life with—Ellen and Jo—already knew because they'd been there and seen it all. Dean was the one who had missed it. And they'd not even gotten to the real details Dean wanted to know, like what had really happened to his father. He couldn't ask now, though. Sam wasn't going to be able to share anymore without losing more of himself. He needed his hardness to survive, Dean could see that now, and he'd already given too much.

"It is something," Sam admitted. "But it's not me. Probably never has been. I'm a hunter now, always will be, and you know how that ends."

"You deserve better," Dean said softly.

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. It's not going to happen though. I've made my peace with that. You should, too." He scrubbed a hand over his face again, wincing, and it was brought home to Dean once again how wrecked his brother was, not just physically, but emotionally as well. Dean loved his father, he always had and he always would, but he couldn't help but blame him for what he had done to his brother.

"I need to go," Sam said after a long silence that Dean hadn't wanted to break. "I should see Ellen."

"You'll come back?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said turning for the door. "You'll see me again."

Sam made his way outside, and Dean followed, stopping on the porch. He wanted to thank Sam for telling him the things he had, but something held him back. Instead, he watched him walk away with a heavy heart. It had been a hell of a weekend, and he had things to do.

He let the door swing closed behind him as he made his way back to the living room. He was just considering another beer—he'd earned it—when he noticed a yellow smudge on the floor. He bent and rubbed some onto his finger. He knew what it was before he even brought it to his nose: sulfur. He straightened, pulling out his phone before realizing he didn't have Sam's number. A curse slipped through his lips. He rushed into the kitchen, thinking he could grab some salt, maybe bless some water if nothing else, but before he even crossed the threshold, the smoke appeared. It ebbed and flowed, stopping at Dean's face, as though it was considering him, and then it poured into his mouth, filling him and taking over.

* * *

**So… I admit it. I'm a drama llama. I can't help but put the boys through these things. I thought they needed this conversation, though, for Sam to finally open up to some extent. As for the demon… Well, that serves a greater purpose, I promise. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	15. Chapter 14

**Huge thanks and hugs to Jenjoremy for the fabulous beta job and to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all their help and support**

* * *

_**Chapter Fourteen**_

Sam was completely wrung out physically—and though he wouldn't acknowledge it even to himself, emotionally, as well. He wanted nothing more than to get back to the Roadhouse and take a bottle of whiskey to bed. It felt like the perfect end to what had been a hell of a week. He wondered what Dean was doing now, maybe thinking on all the crap Sam had spewed—that seemed like a social worker thing to do.

He hadn't known he was going to even say half of what he did before the words were out of his mouth. Dean made him reveal more than he had ever wanted to. Sam felt like a kid again, spilling all his secrets, unable to lie. He would control himself better in future.

The nightmare hadn't helped him keep a lid on it. He had been there, at the crossroads, watching John die. It had been horrific, worse than anything he'd ever seen, and he'd been unable to do a thing to help. He didn't even understand how it had happened. Sam didn't just fall asleep wherever he was, no matter how tired he was, without salt lines poured and a weapon close by. As far as he could tell, Dean's place was about as well protected as the average gingerbread house from greedy kids at Christmas, and yet he'd apparently felt safe enough there to let his guard down and sleep. It wouldn't happen again.

He was an hour out of the Roadhouse when his phone rang. Cursing fluidly, he pulled it out and connected the call. "Yes."

"Sam, it's Ash."

"What do you want?" Sam asked; he was still pissed about the fact Ash had been spilling the news about Dean to Gordon and other practical strangers.

"Demon signs," Ash said.

"Big ones?"

"Bigger than usual. Not Yellow-Eyes big, but I thought you'd want to know."

Sam groaned. He was still exhausted, he'd not slept that long at Dean's, but demons were demons and he should at least investigate.

"Is there anyone there who can back me up?" he asked.

"Ellen's doing her clean-up, so the place is closed. Jo's off visiting a friend."

Of all the damn days for Ellen to pick, it had to be this one. Once every few months or so, Ellen would shut up shop and give the bar a real good scrub down. The place got pretty grimy with hunters traipsing in and out every night. She wasn't exactly anal about cleaning, but every now and then she'd get it into her head to get to work and the bar would be shut up for the day.

"Jo's not coming anywhere near this," Sam said brutally.

"Got it," Ash said. "So, are you taking it or should I call around?"

"No, I'll do it," Sam said. "Where are they?"

"Just outside Fremont."

Sam almost veered into the wrong lane. "Say that again," he snapped, though he was sure he'd heard correctly.

"Fremont, Nebraska," Ash said slowly. "You okay, Sam?"

"Just damn fine. I'll—" There was a sudden crash on the line and then a bang as the phone hit something hard, probably the floor.

"Ash!" Sam shouted. "Tell me you just dropped the damn phone!"

There was a rustling sound and then a voice came over the receiver. "Sammy."

"Dean?"

"Not anymore," the voice replied smoothly. "Dean's taking a little break right now. You'll have to make do with me."

"I will _end_ you," Sam growled, not caring whether it was shifter, demon, ghoul or whatever the hell else could take a person's voice or body.

"How are you going to do that? You don't have the colt anymore, remember? You're defenseless."

Demon then. That was okay. Sam knew how to deal with them just fine.

"I know what you're thinking," the demon said with Dean's voice. "'You'll never get away with this!' That's where you're wrong. I am going to have my fun with this body, and then I will snuff it out like a match. It's going to be a good time. If you don't want to miss the fun, you should get here. It's going to be a helluva ride for poor Dean."

"Fuck you," Sam snarled.

"Tick-tock, Sammy."

The voice was replaced with a dial tone and Sam threw the phone down onto the seat beside him.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" He punctuated every oath with his hand slamming down on the steering wheel.

He allowed himself all of ten seconds to vent his rage—_"It's okay to feel the anger, son, but it's another thing to let it take over and stop you from working"—_and then his mind became cool and calm. Dean was possessed. He didn't have the colt—could he use it even if he did? There was no other weapon for a demon other than the Latin. He had to get there and exorcise before his family was hurt.

He pressed down on the accelerator, coaxing more speed from the engine than he had ever achieved before, and let the anger fill him again. It wasn't in control, he was, but it would help him take care of what was coming.

* * *

Ellen was on her knees scrubbing the floor when she heard Ash hiss between his teeth. "Damn."

"What's wrong?" she asked, looking at him across the room.

"Demon signs. Bigger than the average."

"Yellow-Eyes?"

Ash shook his head. "Nope. Not big enough for that. It's trouble through." He ran a hand through his hair. "Call Sam you think?"

Ellen got to her feet, brushing off her knees and walked over to him. He was staring at his laptop where lines of number and symbols were running down the screen. She didn't understand how he could make anything of the mess, but then she wasn't a genius.

"Call him," she said. "He'll be pissed if you don't."

"Where is he anyway?"

"No idea. Last I heard he was hooked up with Gordon, taking out a nest. Haven't seen either since." Her voice was tight with tension.

"He'll be fine," Ash said confidently. "Nothing can take that dude down."

That was easy for him to say, she thought. He hadn't seen him in the hospital. He hadn't heard the doctor telling him there was no hope.

As Ash picked up his phone and dialed, Ellen went back to the spot she'd been working, thinking about her kids. Jo was visiting an old friend from her truncated college days, and Sam was doing who knew what, who knew where. She preferred it when they were home.

She was scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain that she thought might just be soaked through to the wood, when she heard a thump and rattle as something hit the floor. She looked to Ash, about to ask if he was okay, but then she spotted Dean standing over his lifeless body stretched out on the floor.

"Dean? What's going on?" she asked.

Dean smiled, but he didn't answer her. He picked up the phone instead and started talking. Ellen listened, confused as all hell for a moment, before understanding settled over her. Not Dean. A demon.

She sidestepped and gripped the back of a chair. She hefted it above her head, ready to smash it down, just as Dean put the phone down and turned to her.

Dean laughed. "So brave. I like a little fight in my women. But I'm not quite ready for you. I want Sammy here for _your_ big finish. He needs to see it happen." He plucked the chair out of Ellen's hands with ease and let it fall to the ground with a clatter. "I don't think so," it said. "I prefer the hands on approach myself."

Ellen saw a fist coming at her, felt a sharp blow to her temple, and then nothing.

* * *

She didn't open her eyes immediately when she woke. She allowed her other senses to reach out and tell her what was happening around her. Someone was humming a song she knew but couldn't place, and there was the zip-zip sound of what she thought was a knife being sharpened.

"I know you're awake," the demon said in Dean's amused voice. "You'd never make it in Hollywood. Not that you'll have a chance. You'll be too dead to audition for anything but entrance through the pearly gates."

Ellen opened her eyes and glared. Ash was tied to a chair beside her, still unconscious, but at least alive.

"Ellen, you seem upset," Dean said. "Surely you of all people understand why I have to do this. You're all about family, right? And Sammy's family. You see, he's been going after my dad, trying to kill him." He pouted, a strange expression on Dean's handsome face. "I didn't like that, so I slit his throat. That was fun. But Winchester Senior went and made that deal, and Sam lived. That kinda got me pissed. I've got strict orders not to kill him, unfortunately, but no one said I couldn't have a little fun." He raised the knife and pressed a thumb to the tip. "Sharp enough do you think? Maybe not. Better to be safe than sorry." He set to work again, running the whetstone along the blade, making that zip-zip sound that set Ellen's teeth on edge.

"You've got to know if you kill me, Sam will end you," Ellen said calmly, though her heart was pounding.

"Funnily enough, he said the same thing. How do you think he's going to do that without the colt?"

"He'll get it back. It's only a matter of time. He will put a bullet in your brain and smile while he does it."

"You're missing one important fact. Sam won't kill his big brother. If I stay in this meat suit, I'm protected from Sam's temper for good. Besides, it's not like he's going to be living much longer anyway. Boss has got big plans for him and the others, and… well, I wouldn't put my money on Sam being the victor. Once, yes, for sure, but he's far too emotionally unstable these days."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? Remember who I'm riding. Dean's got a whole bunch of memories of Sam, memories of Sammy's little breakdown, and he's got the experience to untangle all the things Sam didn't say, too. I know more about your boy that you ever could." He tilted its head to the side and smiled inexplicably. "I think our hero is arriving. About time, too. I'm just about done with you. I want to get to the killing already."

Ellen concentrated, too. She could heard the rumble of the Impala, engine louder than she'd ever heard it before. Sam was pushing it to its limits. He was coming to get her.

* * *

Sam kicked open the bar door and rushed inside. Dean, or Dean's body being ridden by the demon, was leaning against the bar, long knife in hand and an expression of contentedness on Dean's face. Ellen and Ash, each with bruises blossoming on their temples, were tied to chairs on the other side of the room, but Jo was nowhere in sight.

"Jo?" Sam asked.

"She's okay," Ellen said.

Sam nodded. If Ellen said she was okay, it meant she wasn't there. There was no way Ellen would look so calm if Jo was in trouble.

The demon tittered. "She's okay for now. I'll get to her in time. Now, let's get down to business. There are things we need to talk about, things Dean needs to talk about, and I only have so long."

"Got a hot date?" Sam asked.

"No, but I'm not stupid enough to think this bar will remain empty forever. I want the bitch and Mensa boy over there dead before the cavalry arrives. I'm sure you put a couple calls in before you got here."

Sam shook his head. A lie. He'd deliberated a long time over it, but eventually he'd put a call in to Steve in hopes that he could call in his crew. He'd explained the situation, making it clear that the demon was to be exorcised, not harmed. He'd threatened extreme pain if anything happened to Dean, and he thought Steve had been listening. If not, if Dean was hurt, Sam would deliver on his promise.

"Really, Sam, think you can lie to me?" Dean asked. "To your brother?"

"You're not him," Sam said. "You're just the thing that's running the switches for now."

The demon laughed. "Okay. You got me there. I'm not Dean. But I do have his whole head to root through. Every memory he has is mine now." He tilted his head to the side. "Huh, you were a cute kid, Sammy. A real dick now you're all grown, as Dean is more than aware, but as a kid you were kinda sweet. You have no idea how much Dean misses _that_ Sam."

"You can say what you like," Sam said. "Do what you want. Doesn't mean a damn thing to me."

"Liar liar pants on fire," he chanted in a sing-song voice. "I know you, Sam. I know how you feel. Dean _knows_ how you feel."

"No one knows how I feel but me," Sam said brutally.

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? Truth is, you're a lot more transparent that you think. Dean knows, and he pities you. Obviously pity isn't the only emotion he feels towards you, but it's definitely high on the list. Want to know what else he feels?"

"Not particularly," Sam said in a bored tone.

"Tough. You will shut up and listen, or Ellen here will pay the price." It moved to Ellen at a speed Sam couldn't match, though he tried to jump between them, and punched her. Her lip split and blood tricked down.

Sam swung out a punch of his own, but the demon caught his wrist and twisted it behind his back. It was like being ripped back through time. For a moment he expected to feel the cool blade against his throat again.

"Just like old times, right, Sam?" The demon murmured into his ear.

"You!" Sam hissed.

"Yes, me."

Sam struggled to free himself, but he was pinned. He'd replayed that day in his head a hundred times, always thinking of another way to get out of the demon's hold, and now he was able to put one idea to use. He lifted his foot and slammed it down on the demon's. The demon released him and pushed him forward so he stumbled, then its hands were on his shoulders, turning him and punching him across the jaw. Sam's head rocked back, and he hissed between his teeth.

"This is more like it," the demon said, Dean's features bright with happiness. "Exactly what I needed. I'm not doing this for myself, you understand. This is for Dean, too. He's enjoying it just as much as I am." The demon punched Sam again, this time across the temple. It wasn't hard enough to knock him unconscious, but it was enough to stun him for a moment. "And he'll enjoy this even more. You see, he's soft now, all about the kids, and to him you're still a kid. He can't say what he wants, as it'll hurt your poor little feelings." It punched Sam again, mashing his lips against his teeth. He spat blood onto the floor. "But the truth is, he's had enough already. You've barely been in his life again a couple months, and he's already sick of you. He had a good life, Sam, a brilliant one, free of the Winchester curse, and now he's back in. Hell, he even got kidnapped because of you." A fist flew out again, colliding with Sam's eye this time. "But he can't send you away, because it's all down to him. If he'd not been set free by Daddy, he maybe could have helped you."

"Fuck you!" Sam spat.

"You think I'm lying?" the demon asked.

"I don't care if you are. My life is what it is. I've made peace with that. Nothing you can say is going to make me care a damn. But this… this is going to feel good." He lurched forward, shoving Dean's shoulders with all his strength. The demon stumbled a few feet and then came at him again. It kicked out, the blow landing in Sam's gut. He tried to keep his feet, but the demon kicked his legs out from under him. He fell to the floor, unable to even cushion his descent, and then curled into a ball as Dean's feet started colliding with him.

He heard Ellen shouting something, but his ears were ringing too much to make out what she was saying. Again and again the demon kicked him, back, front and legs, each blow sending searing pain through Sam. Then the kicks stopped and there was a thudding sound. Sam looked up and saw Steve standing over the downed demon, smashed beer bottle in his hand and a wide smile on his face.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "Traffic was a bitch."

* * *

Ash was sitting at the bar, holding an icepack to his head and looking grim. Ellen was standing beside Sam and the demon was tied to the very chair it had bound Ellen to in the center of a devil's trap. It was still unconscious, but it wouldn't be for long. Sam was holding a hipflask of holy water. Steve was walking around the edges of the trap, a smile on his face and the broken bottle still in his hand.

Every inch of Sam ached, and his right eye was rapidly swelling shut, but he would be okay till this was done. He would last it out until Dean was freed from the demon. He had no idea what would happen after that, but unconsciousness sounded like a real treat.

He shook the flask, sending droplets of water onto Dean's face. The skin sizzled and smoked, and black eyes opened. He looked down at the devil's trap and then up at Sam's face. "Well, it looks like someone had a white knight waiting in the wings." It craned its neck around. "Who was it?"

"Me," Steve said, stepping into the demon's line of sight. "Steve Wandell. Nice to meet you."

"I'm Meg," the demon said. "I'd say it was nice to see you, but it's going to be much nicer peeling the skin from your face when I get free."

"I don't think you're going to get the chance," Steve said conversationally. "Looks like our boy Sam's got his exorcism all ready."

Black eyes met Sam's, seeming to goad him into doing it, and Sam let the anger fill him again as he began the exorcism his father had insisted he learn by heart at age fourteen. The irony of using it now on a demon that had taken over his brother wasn't lost on him.

The Latin flowed from his lips like a lullaby, and not even the demon's laughter, which spewed forth, could break his flow. He took a deep breath before speaking the last words loud and clear. "Audi nos."

Nothing happened.

The demon stared back at him with black eyes.

"Did you say it wrong maybe?" Ellen asked, laying a hand on his arm.

Sam shook his head. He'd said it perfectly. He could have recited the words in his sleep. "He must have locked himself in."

"Locked himself what?" Steve asked.

"There's this symbol. It locks a demon in its host."

"How do you know about that?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Because I spent the last four years of my life hunting your boss," Sam said brutally. "Knowing demon crap is part of that."

"Huh. I underestimated you, Sammy," it said in Dean's voice. "I won't again." It chanted something in Latin and the devil's trap broke as the floorboards pulled up. It flexed Dean's arms, straining against the ropes. "Just give me a minute. I've almost got it."

Steve dropped his bottle and gripped its wrist, trying to hold it down. Then he pulled back suddenly as if burned. Sam was confused, but then he twisted Dean's hand, presenting the underside of his wrist to them. There was the mark Sam had seen before in a book on demonology, branded into his skin.

"You got me," the demon said happily. "Now what are you going to do?"

"Cut it off," Steve said harshly, bending to pick up the bottle and laying it against Dean's wrist.

"Steve, no!" Sam shouted, making to push his hand away.

It was too late. With a wicked smile on Dean's lips, the demon jerked up his wrist, forcing the jagged glass deep into Dean's flesh. "See ya, Sammy," it said just before the black smoke poured out of Dean's mouth, swirling and pulsing.

Sam acted without thought. Demon forgotten, he ripped off his jacket and pushed it down around the bottle still buried in Dean's wrist.

"Sam?" Dean said in a dazed voice, then he hissed in pain. "What the hell happened?"

Sam didn't answer his question. He shouted for someone to call an ambulance and stared at the blood seeping around the edges of Dean's wound. Fast, too fast.

"Sammy," Dean said weakly. "You okay?"

Before Sam could answer, before he could reassure or comfort, Dean's head lolled onto his chest as he fell unconscious.

* * *

**So… Poor Dean's had a helluva weekend. First Gordon, then this. I am some kind of evil putting them both through all this. *snickers* I have no intention of changing though. I love it too much. **

**Until next time…**

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	16. Chapter 15

**Thanks to Jenjoremy for the beta job and Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all the help and support.**

* * *

**_Chapter Fifteen_**

Despite the noise of the hospital—people bustling up and down the halls, voices demanding help and information, and the occasional moan from someone in the ER waiting room—the air around Ellen and Sam was quiet. Sam hadn't said a word since he'd arrived at the hospital. He'd just looked at Ellen and nodded when she told him Dean was being taken care of before dropping into the chair beside her and clasping his hands between his knees.

He hadn't said a word at the Roadhouse either, not after Dean passed out. He'd been silent as he gripped his jacket over Dean's bloody and ruined wrist. When Steve had cut away the restraints, Ellen had replaced Sam's hands with her own and Sam had eased Dean down to the floor, then he'd pushed her away again while he tried to staunch the bleeding. He'd ignored Steve as he scuffed out the devil's trap chalked onto the floor, smearing Dean's blood across the floor.

She had been sure that Sam was going to create hell when the EMTs arrived, but he had quietly stepped back and allowed them to work on Dean at once, though his own bruised and swollen eyes remained locked on Dean's closed ones. The closest he'd come to conversation was shaking his head jerkily when she'd suggested he get himself checked out, too. The demon had done a number on him, and she knew he had to be hurting.

She shuddered as she remembered him curled on the floor while Dean's feet plowed into him over and over.

He glanced at her, and then turned away again. She knew he would speak eventually; he just needed time to process what had happened. And then… She was worried about what would happen next.

Sam had been like a primed bomb from the moment John died, ready to blow at a moment's notice, dangerous even. Beneath that danger was desperate sadness though, and fear, and what had happened to Dean had added to that. He might not acknowledge it openly, he might not even acknowledge it to himself, but Dean was his brother, and he still cared about him.

"I should call, Jo," she said quietly. "Will you be okay for a moment?"

Sam nodded.

"You sure?"

He looked up at her, and though his expression was blank and closed off, she could see the emotion roiling in his eyes.

She patted his shoulder, feeling the bunched muscles. "I'll be right back."

She walked through the main doors. People were milling about outside smoking, some in dressing gowns, toting IV poles, others in regular clothes. They all wore the same harried expression. She made her way along the building, away from their fug, and dialed Jo's number.

"Hey, Mom," she answered brightly.

"Jo, honey, something's happened," she said gently. "Dean had an accident. He's in the hospital."

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine. Took a knock, but I'll be okay."

"And Sam?"

"He'll be okay, too. He got beat to hell, but he's on his feet."

"What happened?"

Wary of being overheard, Ellen spoke quietly and kept her words vague. "Dean had a… guest, an unwanted guest, and in the process of getting rid of it, he was hurt pretty bad."

"The Demon?"

"Not that one, but one of its buddies."

"Where are you?"

"Gothenburg Memorial."

"Okay," she said, her tone becoming businesslike. "If I leave now I can be back in a few hours."

"No. You stay where you are. Have fun with your friend."

Jo scoffed. "Yeah, right. I'll see you soon, Mom."

Sighing—the only person more stubborn than Jo was Sam—Ellen said her goodbyes and implored Jo to drive carefully then headed back into the hospital.

Sam wasn't alone anymore. Chief Adams was standing over him. Sam wasn't even looking at him, though: his gaze remained fixed on his clasped hands. Ellen knew the Chief only vaguely from seeing him around town. He'd never been called to the Roadhouse to deal with a rowdy drinker; the tooled up hunters would never have stood for it. All disputes had been settled with Ellen's shotgun behind the bar and sheer intimidation from other patrons.

She smiled ingratiatingly now, though, as she hurried towards them and said, "Chief, good to see you. Everything okay?"

"I was just asking your buddy here the same question," he replied. "I wanted to know what had happened to his friend. I got a call from the docs here saying there was an assault. They told me the ambulance had brought in a victim with a stab wound and—to use their words—there was another who looked like he'd been through a cider press." He nodded at Sam.

"There was a robbery at the Roadhouse," Ellen said. "Sam and his brother were caught up in it."

Sam glanced up quickly at Ellen and, unnoticed by the chief, he nodded his approval.

"They said something about a bottle being imbedded in the other guy's wrist," the chief said.

"Yeah, Sam took a hell of a beating, as you see, and Dean got hurt trying to defend him. I guess he just stepped in at the exact wrong moment."

The chief nodded. "Okay then. You'll both need to come by the station and make statements. Your buddy will need to as well," he said to Sam.

Sam nodded. "Fine."

"I'll leave you to it," the chief said and ambled away.

"Thanks," Sam said quietly when he was out of earshot.

Ellen patted his arm. "You're welcome, honey. I should put a call in to Steve. I want my gun locked up in case the chief makes a run past the bar."

"I'll do it," Sam said getting to his feet. "I need a little air."

* * *

Dean was taken into surgery shortly after Sam got back, and they were led into a small surgical waiting room. Thankfully it was empty. Ellen didn't think Sam could have stood company, and she was glad for the quiet so she could talk to him.

While Sam had been gone, calling Steve, Ellen had been thinking hard. Since John's death, she had been giving Sam time to come to terms with what had happened. He had been so different, so hard, that she had been wary of driving him away by forcing him to talk. She thought it was time to push him past his comfort levels though. She was not afraid of him—the danger she had seen in him was not for her—but she was afraid of losing him, and she had a feeling that was what would happen if she left him to his thoughts now. There was the same fight or flight look in his eyes that she had seen before.

Despite the change in location, Sam's pose hadn't changed. He remained with his eyes fixed on his clasped hands and his expression closed off.

"Sam," she said, trying to keep her voice calm, to not show her nerves—if this backfired on her, she had a feeling she'd drive him away not only from her but Dean, too. And after everything Dean been through, he was going to need his brother. "We need to talk."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I want to know what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking my ribs hurt," Sam said, obviously trying to evade the conversation Ellen was determined to have.

"I'm sure they do. But that's not what I'm talking about. I want to know what you're planning to do."

"I'm planning to take painkillers."

She sighed. "Will you quit lying to me?"

"I'm not lying," Sam said. "My ribs _do_ hurt and I _do_ want painkillers."

"And then? What are you going to do next?"

"Probably sleep."

"What are you going to do about Dean?"

Sam shrugged. "I figure I'll stay until he's out of surgery, make sure he's okay, and then head out. If I can just get some sleep, I'll be good to go."

That was closer to the truth. Sam was planning on ducking out on his brother, just as she'd suspected. "So you're leaving him," she said, annoyed. "And, let me guess, you're planning on staying gone this time."

Sam raised his head slowly, his eyes coming to rest on her face. "Yeah."

She shook her head desolately. "You know, I've been doing my best to give you time lately, let you have your space, because I knew you'd been through hell, but that's over now, and we're going to talk."

Sam straightened, his hands on his knees. "This should be interesting. So, come on then, talk."

"You're a coward, Sam."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I am?"

"You are."

"I've heard that before recently, and I didn't give a shit then either."

Ellen almost groaned. "Quit with that! Talk to me, Sam. Tell me what you're really thinking. Tell me why you're really doing this. And don't give me crap about hunts."

Sam was silent for so long that she didn't think he would answer, and then he said almost conversationally, "Dean's had a hell of a weekend. I mean aside from the fact he almost died today. He was also kidnapped and held hostage by a dick trying to get to me."

Ellen sucked in a breath. "What happened?"

"I took care of it," Sam said simply. "My point is that in one weekend, he's been through more than any civilian should have to go through. That's why I'm going. Not because I'm a _coward_, but because it's the best thing for him."

"You really are your father's son, aren't you?" Sam frowned and she went on. "You're dumping Dean just like he did. Only you're doing it for all the wrong reasons. He did it so Dean could have a better life; you're doing it because you think it will give _you _a better life—a life without feelings and complications. You've shut yourself down so tight because you think that will protect you. It won't. _Feel, _Sam. Let yourself acknowledge what happened and how it feels."

"It feels like failure."

"It probably does," she agreed. "But it's more than that. It's pain. You almost lost your brother today, again, and that has to hurt like hell. Think about that and then tell me it's just failure."

"I can't," Sam said harshly. "Don't you understand, I can't!"

"I know it's hard, honey, but you have to try. How did it feel watching Dean bleeding out? How did it really feel thinking you were losing him?"

Sam stared across the room for a long moment, his expression stony. Then his face seemed to slacken. For a moment, she thought he would cry, and she prayed for it—he needed to cry, to let it all out at last—but he didn't. He swallowed hard and spoke quietly, "I can't tell you how it felt."

She laid a hand on his arm, wanting to comfort but not overwhelm him. "There are no words," she said gently. "I know. I remember. I sat in that hospital and heard them tell me there was no hope for you. I felt that… horror, that's the closest I can come to it, and I know how much it scared me to think of losing you. You're not losing Dean though, not unless you walk away. He's going to be fine."

"And next time?" Sam asked. "When some other monster comes after him because of me, will he be fine?"

"I don't know, honey. I wish I could tell you he will be. I know this though, he's a lot safer with you in his life than he would be without."

Sam sighed and rubbed at his chin, flinching slightly. "What do I do?"

"You wait till he wakes up then talk to him. Let him in. He's stronger than you think. Remember, he's a Winchester, too."

Sam nodded slowly, and Ellen thought maybe he was ready to hear the rest.

"And, Sam, you need to tell him about John. He needs to know what happened. He has a right to."

Sam sighed. "And when he walks away from me? How safe will he be then? He will when he knows. He'll blame me."

"No, he won't. Honey, you're the only one who blames you for that."

* * *

Dean was out of surgery and in a private room. He was reclined on the bed, his arms at his sides—his wounded wrist wrapped in white bandages.

Sam was fighting with everything he had not to get up and walk out of the room. He didn't want to be there. He could barely admit it to himself, but he was afraid. He _was_ afraid of losing him.

Dean's presence in his life was so tenuous, what had just happened to him was proof of that. The demon, Meg, had used him to get to Sam, just as Gordon had, and Sam hadn't been able to stop it in time. He had failed and he would fail again.

Feeling the fear was like hearing conversation in a foreign language he vaguely knew. It was familiar but not. He had been shut down so tightly lately that it felt wrong to feel again. He wasn't sure he could do it for long. He wasn't sure he wanted to. He almost wished for his father's voice to guide him again as it had before, but John had never been one to coddle. The only thing Sam could remember was the way John had signed off his last note—_I love you son. I've always loved you both._

John loved them. What would he say if he could see them now?

Dean began to stir, and Sam's pulse quickened. He wanted to run, to get away from the conversation Ellen said had to happen, but he forced himself to remain seated.

"Sam?" Dean breathed before his eyes were even open.

How ironic it was that Dean spoke his name before anything else. There were no questions about where he was or what had happened as Sam expected. He wanted Sam instead. It sickened him slightly.

"Yeah," he said heavily. "I'm here."

Dean's eyes opened and searched the room, coming to rest on Sam. His brow furrowed. "What happened to you?"

Sam almost laughed. After everything that had happened, after all he'd been through, he was asking about Sam.

"Took a beating," Sam said. "I'm fine. How are you feeling?"

Dean lifted his bandaged wrist and groaned. "Sore. What happened?" He hesitated, looking confused for a moment, and then he said, "Demon. I was possessed, wasn't I?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head. "Not your fault."

If only he knew, Sam thought. He would have pushed the point, but he _was_ a coward. Ellen had been right. He wanted Dean to listen and understand before he told him anything else.

"Did I do that to you?" Dean gestured with his uninjured hand.

"No, a demon did it."

"With my fists, though, right?"

"It doesn't matter now."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue the point, but Sam spoke before he could.

"Do you need more meds? They told me to let them know when you were awake if you wanted them."

"Nah, I'll be fine," he said with a grim smile. "I'm a Winchester."

He sounded so like John Winchester in that moment. It made Sam think of one of the many times he'd stitched his father up. He'd been around fourteen and John had taken a nasty hit from a shapeshifter. Sam had been horrified by the sheer amount of blood he was losing and the pallor of his skin, and he'd implored his father to go to the ER. John had looked him in the eyes and said, _"You can do this, Sammy._ _You're a Winchester."_

Sam had done it. He had stitched his father up and taken care of him as well as he could. He'd realized then that the name Winchester held a deeper meaning than he had realized before. It was a name that meant strength.

Dean lifted his wrist again and asked, "What's the deal with this?"

"Broken bottle. They did microsurgery to fix up the vessels. Apparently you were lucky. A little to the side and there would have been nerve damage. They had a plastic surgeon do the stitching, so it shouldn't even scar too bad."

"That's good," Dean said then hurried on awkwardly. "Not that there's anything wrong with scars. They're war wounds."

Sam ran a hand along the length of his own scarred throat. "Maybe. They're still a pain in the ass though."

"Did anyone else get hurt?" Dean asked.

"Ellen and Ash took nasty knocks to the head, but they're okay."

"I did that, too?"

"The demon did it," Sam corrected.

"Still feels like my fault."

Sam nodded. He knew all about that. He felt responsible for a lot of people's suffering.

"There was a cop hanging around earlier," he said. "The cover story's that it was a robbery at The Roadhouse and you were protecting me. Keep it as vague as possible until we've all gone over the details together."

"Will do," Dean said.

Silence fell between them, and Sam was loath to break it with what needed to be said. Dean deserved to know the truth, it was true, but that didn't make the prospect of telling him any easier.

"What are you thinking?" Dean asked.

Sam almost smiled as Dean repeated Ellen's previous question. "There's things we need to talk about," he said. "Things you need to hear… about Dad."

Dean's eyes widened but he didn't speak, letting Sam come to it in his own time.

"I need to tell you something," Sam went on. "And I want, no, need, you to let me finish before you tell me to go."

"I won't do that," Dean said confidently.

Sam shrugged. "You can't say that until you hear what I have to say."

"Okay then," Dean said. "Go ahead."

Sam braced his hands on his knees, took a deep breath, and said, "The reason Dad's not here is because of me. I killed him."

* * *

Dean closed his eyes, absorbing the words. He couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it, but Sam sounded so damn earnest when he said it. Was it possible Sam had really done it? He was different now, hardened and occasionally dangerous, Dean knew that, but to kill his own father… There must have been a reason. He couldn't have had a choice.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice coming out more harshly than he intended.

Sam grimaced and stared determinedly at the opposite wall. "You remember the demon we went after, what she did to me?" He ran a hand along his scar again.

"I remember," Dean said.

"Well, it was bad. Worse than bad. I don't know exactly what happened; I was unconscious in the hospital and I've never asked Ellen for details. If you want answers about that, you'll have to ask her."

"Sam," Dean said in a low voice. He wanted his brother his brother to get to the point already.

Sam nodded and looked apologetic. "Dad… Well, he did something, something terrible, and I couldn't stop him."

"Is that why you killed him?"

Sam didn't answer the question. He started talking about things that Dean thought had no bearing on the topic. "There are different types of demons, different levels of power. Yellow-Eyes is the most powerful we've ever come across, but there are others that are just as dangerous. Some demons have jobs, roles to play. One of those types is a crossroads demon."

Dean had heard of crossroads demons before, but only in the form of legend, like the Robert Johnson tale. Story was he'd sold his soul for the ability to play the best blues. Dean had always believed it was just a story though, something to make good records.

"You're telling me they're for real?" he asked, then shook his head. "What's this got to do with Dad?"

Sam looked up and locked eyes with Dean. There was terrible conflict there, and for once his expression wasn't closed off. His pain was clear to see. "He made a deal. He sold his soul to save me."

"He made a deal?"

Sam nodded slowly. "If I'd been more careful, if I'd gotten out of that demon's hold, I wouldn't have been hurt, and he wouldn't have been forced to do what he did. I killed him."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the words. He shouldn't have been surprised really. Of course John had traded his life and sold his soul for Sam. It was awful, but Dean understood. If he would risk his life on a daily basis to save strangers, what wouldn't he do for family? He would, and did, give everything.

Sam's guilt permeated the room like perfume. He truly believed it was his fault. Dean had dealt with this kind of situation before, this misplaced guilt, but never with something of this magnitude. He had seen it in kids who blamed themselves for their parents' drinking or abuse. _"If I wasn't bad, they wouldn't have to do it. It's my fault that they have to hurt me."_

It sickened Dean when he saw it in the kids, but in his brother it was so much worse. The problem was that he understood what Sam was thinking. If the situations were reversed, he'd feel the same, despite knowing on the logical level it wasn't his fault. It wasn't Sam's fault either. Even if he hadn't been unconscious, unable to do a thing to stop his father, it wouldn't have been his fault. John Winchester was never a man to be reasoned with.

"I'm sorry," Sam said bowing his head.

Dean wanted to argue against what Sam was saying, to refute his guilt and apology, but he knew that Sam wasn't ready to hear it. He needed to have his confession validated. He needed absolution. He needed Dean to be his big brother again.

"It's okay, Sam," he said, allowing no trace of his turmoil to seep into his voice. He had to sound confident and calm. "I forgive you."

* * *

**So… Did Dean do the right thing 'forgiving' Sam or should he have argued the point? I had varying ideas of what would happen in this scene, but eventually decided Dean's knowledge and training would lead him in this direction for his brother. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	17. Chapter 16

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing. She makes changes that make the world of difference to what you read—all for the better. Thanks also to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for all their help, support and idea sharing. This story is theirs as much as it is mine.**

* * *

**_Chapter Sixteen_**

If Dean thought he could convince Sam that John's death wasn't his fault by merely telling him, he would have said it a hundred times. He knew better though. Sam had to come to the conclusion on his own. Dean didn't know how to help him do that though, even after raiding his own college textbooks for advice.

He had taken a leave of absence from work following his possession—not that anyone outside of The Roadhouse knew what had really happened. His colleagues believed the robbery story, and they commended him for trying to protect his brother. It gave him a twist in his guts whenever he thought about it. He hadn't protected anyone. He'd been the one doing the hurting, though it had largely been out of his control. The thing he could have controlled—the demon actually getting to him—_had_ been his fault. His house wasn't remotely protected from the supernatural. He'd gotten too comfortable as a civilian and let it slip. Sam had soon fixed that. When Dean was released from the hospital, he returned home to find that Sam had been busy in his absence. There were now salt lines laid down and protective sigils carved into his windowsills. Devil's traps had been concealed under rugs by the doors and in the middle of the lounge. Sam wasn't taking any chances of something like that happening again.

The house wasn't the only thing that had changed. Sam was more… open now, less guarded about every aspect of his life. When Dean called him, he answered, and he even made a couple calls himself. He still wasn't exactly verbose when they were together, but he made an effort. He told Dean scant details about the hunts he was taking, just enough to pique Dean's curiosity and make him wish for more.

Dean had barely thought about hunting since college, but it was on his mind a lot now because of Sam. He found himself fretting about him, wondering what cases he was taking that day, what risks he was running. He felt like a big brother again.

A week after the possession, when Dean's wrist had settled to an ache rather than a burn, he made the trip north to see Sonny. He wanted to see his friend again, but a bigger part of him was looking for advice. He couldn't ride his Harley yet, so he swapped vehicles with his boss who had long lusted after a chance to test out the bike and happily exchanged it for his Chrysler for the duration of Dean's recovery.

He arrived at the farm at dusk, pulling the car to a stop beside the now almost antique truck. Sonny was waiting for him on the porch, and he smiled as Dean climbed out.

"I wondered who was visiting in that fancy thing," he said, coming down the steps. "What happened to the bike?"

Dean pushed back his sleeve and showed the white dressing still covering his wounded wrist. "Can't ride right now. Borrowed this from Rich at the office."

"What happened to you?"

"Long story," Dean said. "Get me a coke and I'll tell you all about it."

"I can do you one better than that for once," Sonny said. "Caught one of the boys trying to sneak a six-pack in—real little hellion, reminds me a lot of you. I confiscated it and put him on double chores, but I didn't trash it."

"Great," Dean said. He sat down on the porch steps and waited as Sonny went back inside.

He returned a moment later with a bottle of Pabst and a can of soda. Dean took the bottle and held it between his knees—unconsciously imitating his brother's usual stance.

"So, you going to tell me what happened to you?" Sonny asked,

"I can if you like," Dean said, "but it involves a lot of the funkier side of the world. Once you know about that stuff, it's hard to go on the same way."

Sonny considered carefully before answering. "Give me the funky free version."

"Well, I got into trouble and wasn't really myself for a while. I hurt people and as a result, I was hurt, too. Took a broken beer bottle to the wrist."

Sonny sucked in a breath between his teeth. "Damn. That sounds like it could have been bad."

"It was. Luckily Sam was there. He saved my life."

"How's that going?" Sonny asked. "Things with Sam, I mean."

"They're good," Dean said, happy it wasn't a lie. "It's not perfect, but we've turned a corner lately, and I think it'll get better from here on out. He's… different, been through a lot, even more than I knew in the beginning, but he's strong. He's had to be. It's just…" Dean paused, the real reason he'd come on the tip of his tongue.

"It's just what?"

Dean took a moment to think. He didn't know how much to tell. It seemed like a betrayal to Sam to mention his belief that he'd killed his father, but it was the crux of the problem he needed help with. He needed to know how to make him see it wasn't his fault.

"My dad died," he started.

"I remember," Sonny said solemnly.

"And Sam thinks it was his fault."

"Why the hell would he think that?"

"Funky stuff," Dean said evasively. "That's not the point though. The point is that I don't know how to make him see it wasn't." He looked at Sonny. "What would you do?"

Sonny's mouth pressed into a thin line and he ran a hand over his head. "What would you do if he was one of your kids?"

That was easy. "Talk it out. Make them come to the realization themselves when faced with the facts of the situation. I'd arrange some proper counseling for them. But it's not that simple with Sam. The circumstances are complicated. Hell, if I were him, I'd probably blame myself, too. And trust me, he's not going to therapy."

Sonny nodded, looking thoughtful. "You think he'll talk to you about it?"

"Not yet," Dean said. "We're just starting out again, trying to find our footing with each other. I can't push him too much or he'll pull away."

"Then I guess you have to decide, don't you," Sonny said. "What do you want more? Him to believe it wasn't his fault or him to be your brother again?"

Dean looked away, afraid of Sonny seeing the guilty truth in his eyes. He wanted his brother again. He needed that. That was why he wasn't pushing, because he _knew_ Sam would turn away from him, and he couldn't bear it.

"That's what I thought," Sonny said dryly. "There's no shame in wanting him in your life, Dean. You went without him for a long time. Of course you're holding tight now. Maybe Sam will come to the realization himself one day. Maybe he won't. Either way, you'll have your brother."

"Doesn't that make me a coward?" Dean asked.

Sonny shrugged. "Only to yourself. To anyone else you're just a brother."

* * *

The nightmares started that night. It was as if with his worry for Sam eased somewhat, his mind could focus on the other things that had happened.

He didn't dream about the smoke pouring into him, violating him and taking over. He dreamed about Sam. He hadn't remembered a thing about the possession other than the smoke before, but now he saw flashes of events that he was sure were what had happened while the demon was in control. He saw Ash and Ellen crumpling to the floor as he punched them. He saw Sam curled into a ball on the floor as he kicked him again and again.

He woke up panting and drenched in sweat.

Though he knew it wasn't his fault that Sam had been beaten to hell, he couldn't control a thing the demon did, the image of Sam's swollen and spectacularly bruised face came to mind again and again. The fact it was his fists that had done the damage was horrific to him.

If he had a way to kill that demon—Meg, Sam said it was called—he would have done it without hesitation for what it did to them all, for what it made _him_ do.

The dreams came back every night for the week he spent at Sonny's, taunting him. His anger at the demon grew with every passing day until it was too much. He had to do something about it. He had to take back control. He had to find the demon and send it back to Hell. He could do it, he was sure. He just needed a little help. He needed Sam.

That night the dream changed. He was beating Sam again, fists flying at his face, and then something happened. His hands opened and he stepped back. He gained control of his own body and the demon flew out of him. He beat it. He won.

Filled with surety and confidence, he left that morning and started the journey home.

* * *

Sam was just coming back from a hunt in Ohio. It had been a strange one, and he'd been forced to call in help from Bobby Singer when Ash came up blank on the research. Bobby had delivered the information on what he'd called a Trickster.

He was crossing the Iowa border on his way back to The Roadhouse when his phone beeped with a message. With one hand on the wheel, he pulled it out and read. **Got something I need help with. No worry. Dean.**

_No worry._ Like Sam could do anything but after what had happened lately. Last time he'd heard from Dean, he'd been visiting his buddy in New York. He probably should have called in again, but he'd gotten wrapped up in the hunt. Wondering what had happened this time, he fired off a reply—**On my way**—and redirected his course to Fremont.

He arrived around noon and was surprised to find Dean waiting for him at the door. He didn't look hurt or even that worried, so Sam relaxed.

"You been waiting out here long?" he asked.

Dean grinned. "Dude, you probably don't even notice it anymore, but that car makes a hell of a noise. I think I heard it when you crossed the state line. I would know the sound anywhere, so I thought I'd come out and wait for you."

Dean gestured him in. Sam still felt strange in Dean's house. It was a reminder of everything that was different between them and the things he would never have. He apparently felt safe enough there to sleep—that still baffled him—but he didn't feel relaxed enough to kick back when he was there the way he did at The Roadhouse. It was probably because it wasn't his home. It had never been his home.

"You want anything?" Dean asked. "Beer? Coffee?"

"Coffee," Sam said. "I've been driving all night and I need a kick."

Dean wandered into the kitchen and Sam sat on the edge of the couch, looking around the room. It wasn't overly decorated. There were a few framed photos on the wall that Sam had never paid attention to before. He glanced at them now, though. There was a photo of Dean in a cap and gown, flanked by Bobby and a man with a ponytail Sam guessed was Sonny, and another shot of the ponytailed man and Dean in front of what looked like a farmhouse. And then there was a photo of a younger Dean and Sam.

Sam got to his feet and walked toward it, his eyes fixed on the image. The memory came to him like a punch to the gut. He remembered that day. He and Dean were sitting on the hood of one of the junkers. Dean had given him a boost because he was too small to make it on his own. He remembered the annoyance of Dean's laugh as he helped him up there. _"Don't worry, Sammy. One day you'll grow. I promise._" Bobby—back in the days when he'd been Uncle Bobby instead of a practical stranger—had taken the picture with his old camera.

He was still standing there, transfixed by the photograph, when Dean came back in with two mugs of coffee in his hands. Sam spun guiltily, as if he'd been caught doing something illicit.

If Dean noticed what he had been looking at, he didn't comment. He merely handed Sam a mug and then sat down on his couch, the picture of ease. "So, what was the hunt?" Dean asked.

Sam sat down on the other end of the couch and tried to look relaxed. He could face demons and monsters with no problems, but when it came down to sitting in his brother's house and not bolting, he struggled. It wasn't even about Dean; it was just the magnitude of the difference between them.

"Something called a Trickster," he said. "According to Bobby Singer they're demi-gods."

"You took out a god?" Dean asked. "That's pretty awesome."

"Yeah, I guess." Sam smiled slightly. "It was a weird one. It could warp reality. It was killing people with urban legends. One guy bought it by alligator in the sewer. And this other guy was abducted by aliens and forced to slow dance with one."

"Seriously?"

Sam nodded, a laugh bubbling out of him. Dean's eyes danced with something indefinable and Sam cleared his throat, feeling awkward.

"I took it out with a wooden stake to the chest," he said.

"Where did you get a stake from?" Dean asked curiously.

"Carved one," Sam said simply.

"Man, hunting's a lot crazier than I remember."

Sam nodded and took a swig of his much needed coffee. "Seems to get crazier all the time. Back when me and Dad were hunting together…" He trailed off. What was he doing? Like Dean wanted to hear stories about the 'good old days' hunting with his father after what Sam had done. He coughed to break the awkward silence. "Anyway. What did you need help with?"

Dean leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. Sam could see the edge of the dressing covering his wrist peeping out from under his shirtsleeve. "I want you to teach me how to hunt demons," he said flatly.

"You want me to what?"

"You heard me. I want to hunt demons, specifically the demon that possessed me."

"Meg," Sam supplied. "Look, Dean, I get that you're pissed, I would be, too, but you don't want this."

"I do," Dean said doggedly.

How could he say that? He had everything. He had a house and job and friends. He was making something _real _of his life. He _had_ a life. How could he want to give all that up for the doomed existence of a hunter?

"No," Sam said brutally. "I'm not helping you destroy your life. You're out and you're staying out."

Dean narrowed his eyes, looking mutinous. "And that's your choice because…?"

"Because you have something better, Dean. You have everything. You can't give that up."

"I'm not talking about giving anything up. I'm talking about one demon, well, two really, and—"

"Two?" Sam asked darkly. He couldn't be thinking what Sam thought he was. Over Sam's dead body was he joining _that_ hunt.

"Yes. Two. I'm sending that bitch back to Hell, and then, when you find it, I'm coming after the Demon that killed mom, too."

Sam lurched to his feet and walked away from him, his hands fisted at his sides. This could not be happening. Dean could not be thinking of joining the cause, not for that _thing_. It had been their father's obsession, and then it became Sam's. He was damned if he would let the same thing happen to Dean. He was not doing this.

"No!"

"Yes," Dean said, equally as firmly. "I'm in, Sam. This is my fight, too. He killed _our_ mom, and he destroyed _our_ father. He ruined _our_ lives. I am a part of this, whether you like it or not."

"It will kill you!" Sam snapped. "Don't you understand that? Yellow-Eyes destroys everything it touches. Because of that thing, I got my throat slit. Because of _that_ I killed our father. I am not letting that happen to you."

Dean looked at him sympathetically. Sam turned away. He didn't want to see that look on Dean's face. He didn't deserve sympathy. He deserved blame, anger, hatred even.

"Sam…" Dean said gently. "I know you think—"

Sam spun on his heel, glaring at Dean. "We're not talking about it_._"

"Okay," Dean said, nodding. "We don't have to. We can talk about you training me though."

Sam shook his head. "It's not going to happen."

"Fine," Dean said easily. "I'll get Bobby to help me."

"I won't let him!"

Dean laughed hard. "You really think you can stop Bobby from doing anything? Your memory is obviously a little flawed if you think that. Bobby does what he wants, when he wants, and not even Dad could put a dent in that stubbornness."

The mention of their father burned Sam's chest. Dean could talk about him so easily. Sam couldn't. The mere mention of his father made him feel like he was choking on the words.

"Look, Sam, I'm doing this, with or without your help. I want you to help me, but if you really can't do it, I'll get someone else. I know you're the best though, so the way I figure it, the more help you give me, the better my chances. Closest I've ever been to a demon is when I had one in me, and that's kinda vague." He looked earnestly into Sam's eyes. "You really going to let me go out there with secondhand knowledge?"

And there was the problem. Dean could talk about Bobby being stubborn, but Sam was willing to bet that he had nothing on Dean's mulishness. If he really was going to do this, Sam wanted him to know as much as there was to know. He wanted to be there to protect him. He _needed _to be there.

"Bobby's good," he said evasively.

"He is," Dean agreed smiling slightly. He apparently already knew he'd won. "But you're better."

Sam raked a hand through his hair. "I don't want to do this," he said, feeling like a child refusing to leave the park at the end of playtime under Dean's gaze.

"But you're going to anyway, right?" Dean was full on grinning now.

Sam sighed, defeated. "I'll do it. But this is happening on my terms. You do what I say when I say it. Understand?"

"Absolutely," Dean said. "You're the boss."

"And you do nothing alone," Sam added. "You find a demon, you wait for me before even going _near_ it right?"

"Right."

"Okay then."

"What's first, boss?" Dean asked slyly.

Sam smiled slightly. "Theory. Is your Latin still crap? Because you're going to need that."

"I still suck, I'm sure," Dean said. "It's not like I took Latin 101 in college, but I've learned a lot over the years. I've even got a pretty good work ethic for studying now."

"Good," Sam said. "You're going to need it."

* * *

The first day of Dean's new mission came with a shock, to him at least. Sam had spent the night in a motel in town rather than stay at Dean's—he said he didn't want to put Dean out, but Dean saw the tension in him so he didn't push the subject—and the next day he arrived armed with a few heavy books and John Winchester's journal.

It had been a staple of Dean's childhood. He had seen John poring over it more times than he could count. He'd only looked inside it a few times, under his father's eye, so when Sam plunked it down on the table in front of him and told him that it would be their greatest study tool, Dean was stunned.

He watched the way Sam flipped through it, pointing out the sections on demons and exorcisms, no sign of tension in him. It was as if it was Sam's now—which he realized, with a pang of regret, it was. Without their father there to claim it, it had been passed onto Sam. In another life it would have been Dean who received it as the eldest, a life in which there was no Sonny or college. He couldn't decide if he regretted that or not.

When it was his turn to look through it, as Sam stood leaning against the wall sipping his coffee, he held it almost reverently. He opened it, seeing the first entry in his father's familiar handwriting, remembering the multiple times he'd seen that writing before on motel notepads with messages for him — _'I've gone to the library. Back in an hour. Take care of Sammy.' _

He read over one of the earliest entries. "What's this about about Missouri? I don't remember us going to Missouri." he asked swallowing the lump in his throat.

"That's not the state," Sam said. "It's a person. Missouri Mosley. She's a psychic in Lawrence. She's the one who clued him in on the supernatural."

"He tell you that?" Dean asked—it seemed more open than the John Winchester Dean remembered.

"I met her. There was hunt at our old house once, and she helped us out."

"You went home?" Dean asked, sounding as stunned as he felt.

"Yeah. It did a real number on Dad, but…" He shrugged. "It was different for me. I was too young."

Dean wondered how he would have felt going back to Lawrence. He'd sworn at a very young age, once he was old enough to fully understand what had happened there, that he would never go back.

Dean turned the pages until he came to the exorcism Sam wanted him to learn. It was what he called the 'quick and dirty' version, for regular demons. It wouldn't work on Yellow-Eyes; they'd need the full Rituale Romanum for that. He set to work learning the shorter version.

Dean's stellar work ethic was pushed to the limit in the following days. He had forgotten what Sam could be like when he got something in his head. It had been cute when he was a kid, but now that he was an adult, it was a pain in the ass. Sam was determined that Dean be as prepared as it was possible to be, and Dean was dedicated to the mission, so he put his head down and got on with it. He studied exorcisms until he was sick of them, and then recited them until he was cursing the language as a whole.

Their training had to take a backseat when Dean returned to work, as they only had couple days a week together. It didn't lessen Dean's determination though, and it kept the nightmares away. When Dean had the short exorcism down and he was almost fully healed, they got down to physical training.

Dean was pleased—and Sam impressed—to find that, though it had been years since Dean fired a gun, he was still a damn good shot. They'd driven out to the forest to test Dean's skill out on some cans, and the quiet there was broken over and over by the crack of a gun followed by the plunk of a holed can hitting the ground. Sam kept him going, though, aiming and firing until it was second nature and the gun felt at home in his hands again.

From there they moved onto sparring. Embarrassingly, the first few times, Sam had him pinned on the ground within seconds. Then it started coming back to Dean, the muscle memory, and he quickly became a challenge. Sam then taught him some of the moves he'd learned from his years hunting, brawling moves John Winchester would have frowned on when he was training them as kids. Dean couldn't deny they were effective.

He felt ready.

* * *

**So… Dean's a hunter again. Kinda. Maybe. Almost. Whatever. It makes me ridiculously happy that he's training again anyway. I loved writing Social Worker Dean—it seemed such a good fit for him—but it was so good to come at him from a familiar angle again. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	18. Chapter 17

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the fabulous beta job. She catches all my misses and improves upon what's there. And to SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for helping me get this outlined and written as well as being the best friends a girl could ask for.**

* * *

**_Chapter Seventeen_**

Dean was mowing his lawn, a job he'd tired of within a few months of moving into his house, when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Glad of an excuse to stop, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and answered.

"Dean, it's Bobby."

"Hey, Bobby. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Is your brother with you?"

"Sam? No, he's on some hunt in Iowa. Why?"

"Heard about a death," Bobby said.

"You think it was Sam?" Dean asked, his voice tight.

"Naw," Bobby said easily, as if oblivious of the scare he'd just given Dean. "Someone your daddy knew. I thought someone should give him the head's up though. If John knew him, Sam probably did as well, but he doesn't seem to be taking my calls."

Ignoring the bitter note to Bobby's tone, he asked, "Who was it?"

"Hunter called Jefferson."

Dean searched his memory. The name sounded familiar; he was pretty sure he'd at least heard of him if not met him. "What happened to him?" Dean asked.

He heard Bobby's heavy sigh. "Not a fugly, if that's what you're thinking. It was suicide. From what I heard, he hung himself in the garage."

"Shit," Dean breathed.

"Yeah. I thought someone should tell Sam."

"I'll take care of it," Dean said.

"Okay. How are things going with you two?"

"Good," Dean said. "Real good, I think. It's hard to tell with Sam sometimes, but, yeah, it's getting better."

"I'm happy for ya. See if you can get him out my way some time. I've got a couple more books on demon lore he might like to see, and it'd be good to see him when he's not doing his best to bleed out on the couch."

"Got it," Dean said, thinking of the difficulty he would have trying to persuade Sam to go to Bobby's. Whenever Sam spoke of him, it was Bobby Singer. He either didn't know or didn't care that Bobby had once been family. "I better go so I can call Sammy," Dean said. "I'll be in touch."

"Make sure you are," Bobby said gruffly.

They exchanged goodbyes and then Dean hit the first speed-dial, the one he'd been so happy to program in. It rang out and then connected to voicemail. Sam's dour voice instructed him to leave a message with his name, number and problem.

Dean ended the call and redialed. It was probably Bobby's news that had him jumping at shadows, Sam could just be busy with the hunt, but he thought he would feel a lot better if he could talk to Sam for a minute. It rang through to voicemail again, and Dean left a message in case Sam was screening his calls. "It's me. You okay? Call me back when you get a chance." He almost hung up, but then he remembered who he was talking to and the kind of messages he usually received. "I'm fine."

He waited a few minutes to give Sam time to check the message and then he called again. Sam answered on the third ring.

"Dean?" He sounded out of breath.

"Everything okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, everything's—" There was a grunt of pain and the sound of the phone hitting something hard.

"Sam!" Dean shouted.

"M'fine," Sam said in a muffled voice, as if he was a few feet away from the receiver. "I'll call you back."

"But…" Dean started, but there was a crackling sound and then the call ended. Dean cursed loudly and then spun on his heel as he heard a tutting behind him. Ms. Rigby, Dean's nosey neighbor, was scowling at him. He raised a hand in greeting and turned away. Now she would have something else to bitch about along with his loud music and noisy motorbike. She was probably secretly thrilled.

It was an hour after Dean had spoken to Sam, and Dean was eating, when his phone rang again, this time with a call from Sam. Dean answered, asking, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, sounding weary. "What did you need?" Dean could hear the rumble of the Impala in the background. Sam was driving.

"Bobby called. Said he heard a hunter had died. Wanted you to know."

"Who?"

"Someone called Jefferson. He was an old buddy of Dad's."

"I know Jefferson," Sam said in a hollow voice. "Knew him. Dammit. Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I've got to see a few people, but I'll swing by when I can."

"You going to The Roadhouse?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"I can meet you there," Dean offered.

"Sure. Okay. I'm not too far out. I'll see you there."

Without another word, Sam hung up. Dean was used to his brother's abrupt goodbyes, so he wasn't offended as he had been the first time it happened. He cleaned up the remains of his meal, grabbed his jacket and keys, and went outside. Feeling slightly devilish, he made sure to rev the engine a couple times before riding off, just to screw with Ms. Rigby.

* * *

The atmosphere in the Roadhouse was somber when Dean arrived. People—hunters largely—were sitting at tables, talking quietly and drinking. No one had a weapon on the table in front of him or her this time. Dean guessed the news of Jefferson's death had spread among them. They'd lost one of their own. He wondered idly if that was what it had been like when they'd heard about John's death. Did they mourn him with words and liquor, or had he pissed so many of them off that they didn't care?

Eyes followed him as he walked across the room to the bar. He wondered what they were thinking. He wasn't one of them, that much was obvious. Did they think he was just a hapless tourist who had stumbled across the place? Did they resent him invading their time of grief?

Jo was behind the bar, and when he approached, she held out a beer to him. He rooted through his pocket for a bill, but she shook her head. "Family discount. Beer's free for Winchesters."

Murmuring broke out behind him, and he glanced around to find the eyes following him didn't look so resentful now. They looked curious. He turned back to Jo, eyebrow raised, and she laughed softly.

"You're a celebrity right now," she said. "Dean Winchester. Back in the life. They heard about you back in the day, and now you're here again… They want to know how badass you are."

Dean snorted. "Not very."

Jo lowered her voice. "You know that, and I know that, but they don't have to know. You've got to remember, you've got the Winchester name backing you up. Your dad was a great hunter; Sam's even better. They're all dying to see you in action."

"I'm not back in the life," Dean said. "Not really."

"'Course you're not. Sam's training you to hunt demons as a brotherly bonding activity."

"You know about that?"

"Sure. Sam's my brother, too, you know. He tells me stuff. While we're on the subject, how did you persuade him to train you? He won't teach me a thing about demons, let alone let me near one, or any other fugly for that matter."

"I pulled rank as the big brother," Dean said with a grin. "He had no choice."

"Haha," she said sardonically. "Seriously, how did you persuade him?"

"Took a bottle to the wrist," Dean said. "How could he argue after that?"

She scowled at him. "So, that confirms my theory: all Winchesters lie through their teeth."

Dean shrugged and smiled. "He knew I was going to do it anyway. I guess he wanted me to be as prepared as I could be, so he's showing me the ropes. At least as far as demons go. I know a lot already about some of the other stuff. Like you said, I _was_ in the life."

"What's it like?" she asked, leaning forwards. "Hunting? Obviously it's exciting, but how do you feel when you're—"

"Ellen!" Dean said brightly as she approached behind Jo.

Jo's mouth snapped shut and then she said, "And that's why I couldn't stay. It's hard to play college life when you've got a knife collection under the bed."

Dean nodded sagely. "Yeah. I can imagine."

"Joanna Beth," Ellen said.

"Yes, Mom?" Jo asked innocently.

"Go get me another case of PBR out of the back, and do me a favor—quit grilling Dean about hunting or I'll have to ban him."

Jo sighed and trudged away.

Dean tried to look apologetic rather than amused, but he could see Jo's point of view. She was close to Sam's age, old enough to make her own choices. If she wanted to hunt, it was her decision to make. Not that he particularly wanted her out there risking her life. Sam obviously cared about her. If something happened to her, it'd probably wreck him. Dean sighed. The downside of his education was that he was used to coming at a situation from both sides to find the solution.

"Don't let Sam hear you talking to her about hunting," Ellen warned.

"Oh, I won't," Dean said quickly.

She laughed. "So, how've you been? I've asked Sam but apart from telling me your wrist healed well, he hasn't said much else. How's work?"

"It's good," Dean said. "I've got a few days off since I was on call all last weekend."

"You like what you do?"

"I love it," he said earnestly. "I know it's not the only thing in the world worth something, but I'm helping people, kids, and that feels good."

She smiled. "It's good to hear. I remember when you wanted nothing more than for your daddy to let you go on a hunt."

Dean nodded. "A different life."

"Yeah, it was." She sighed and looked around the bar at her morose patrons. "A fragile one."

"That's why I'm here," Dean said. "I called Sam and told him what had happened, and he said he'd meet me here. Was he close to Jefferson?"

"Not for a while. They used to be, took quite a few hunts together, but when John died, everything changed. It's still gonna knock him on his ass though. I don't need to tell you Sam's been through a lot and lost a lot. You've been through it all, too."

Dean shrugged. "It's not the same. I basically lost dad when I was sixteen. The loss is a lot more recent for Sam."

"You worry about him, don't you?" she asked quietly.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I do."

Ellen looked thoughtful, as she was working out some difficult math problem in her head, and then she said, "It was different for Sam after you were gone, and I don't just mean because you weren't there. Your dad… changed. He was intense before, you know that better than anyone, but after you, he was something else. He became so focused on Sam—on keeping him safe—that it became everything. It was hard for Sam. Some kids would buck under that kind of pressure, and Sam did at first, and then it was like he gave up fighting it. When he was eighteen, he got a chance at another life."

"Stanford?" Dean asked. "Sam told me about he'd been accepted."

"Yeah. He was all geared up to go, so excited about it all, but your father found the Demon. Sam had a choice: college or the life. He chose the life. He threw everything into being a hunter, saving lives, doing his best by your father and the world, making himself the best hunter there is. You could ask any hunter in this place, and they'd tell you your brother is damn good. They might not like it, _or him_, but they acknowledge that about him. He's good."

"You saying I shouldn't worry about him?" Dean asked dryly. "Is that what you tell yourself when he's off on a job?"

She smiled slightly. "I'm telling you that you shouldn't worry so much. He's damn good at what he does. He can take care of himself."

Dean blew out a deep breath. "I know that. I know he's all grown now, and he'd probably kick my ass six ways from Sunday for saying this, but he's still my kid brother. That doesn't go away. I want to take care of him."

"Oh, honey," she said gently, "you're not the only one, believe me."

* * *

Sam noted the lack of noise before he even got out of the car. There was usually a dull rumble formed of music and loud voices when the Roadhouse was open that was as familiar to Sam as the sound of Impala's engine. News must have spread about Jefferson.

Sam hadn't spoken to the man in months, not since shortly before John's death. They'd crossed paths at The Roadhouse a couple of times, but Sam hadn't spoken to him. He'd stayed in his corner, drinking his whiskey, ignoring people, and Jefferson hadn't pushed. He was dead now though, like Caleb and Pastor Jim, like his father, another face gone.

Sam wondered what had done it.

He pushed open the bar door, and the low hum of voices reached him. He scanned the room, seeing Dean sitting at the bar with Jo, and he nodded to them before making his way across the room to a corner table where the man he needed to see was sitting. He felt their gaze on his back, but he didn't turn. He would be with them soon enough. First he needed to speak to Rick—one of the few hunters who had been around since before his father's time, and Jefferson's old hunting partner.

"Winchester," Rick said, looking up. "Grab a seat."

Sam pulled a chair around and sat so he could still see the room. "I'm sorry," he said with feeling.

"Yeah. That I believe, coming from you." He glanced around the room at the other hunters who were watching them askance. He made no attempt to keep his voice down; he didn't care if he was heard.

Sam nodded. There were some hunters who would genuinely care that Jefferson was dead, but there were others who would gather around the pyre while secretly thanking their lucky stars that, this time, it was someone else, not them.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"He hung himself," Rick said scathingly. "Do you believe it? Jefferson, killing himself?"

"No," Sam said. "I don't believe it."

Rick look into his eyes, his face haggard. "I didn't want to believe it either, but I got it straight from the cop's mouth, so to speak. Saw their report myself. Faye was worried when he didn't answer his phone, so she called the local yokels to check up on him. They found him in the garage, neck broke, swinging from the rafters."

"Jefferson wouldn't do that," Sam said doggedly.

Jefferson was one of the few hunters who had an actual family. His marriage had dissolved years before Sam met him, but he'd stayed close to his daughter, Faye, and his grandchildren when they'd come along. He'd been dedicated to them. He wouldn't kill himself.

Rick shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you, Sam. We hadn't spoken in a couple weeks, and the next thing I know, I get a phone call from Faye telling me he's dead."

Sam shook his head. He didn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. There was some other explanation and he would find it.

"She's giving him a church burial," Rick went on.

"She's what?" Sam knew people had regular funerals, civilians, but he'd never heard of a _hunter_ having one before.

"Proper funeral, preacher, coffin, hearse, the works. Says she wants to give him a good send off." He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "You going to come?"

"No," Sam said brutally. "I'll be busy finding out what did this and killing it."

"You really think it's something funky?" Rick asked, sounded disbelieving.

"I think Jefferson would never do that to himself," Sam said, getting to his feet. "And I think I'm going to find out what did it."

He went over to the bar where Ellen had joined Jo and Dean.

"What happened to your face?" Dean asked in lieu of a greeting.

Sam brought a hand up to his bruised jaw. "A vengeful spirit. It didn't appreciate me taking a moment out of desecrating its grave to answer the phone."

"Oh."

Dean looked a little guilty, but Sam didn't bother to reassure him. He waved away the beer Ellen offered him and said, "Rick thinks it was suicide."

"Yeah, that's the story," Ellen said.

"Exactly. The story," Sam said. "There's no way he's do that."

Jo frowned. "Then what did do it? You thinking some kind of fugly had a hand in it? Why would they want to kill him like that when they've got claws and crap to work with?"

"No idea," Sam said. "I'll find out though."

"Honey, are you sure about this?" Ellen began. "Maybe he really did…"

"Kill himself?" Sam said harshly. "No, He didn't."

"It does happen," Dean said in an infuriatingly reasonable tone. "And some people are real good at hiding what they're feeling. This Jefferson could have been depressed for a while."

Sam turned away again and made for the door.

"Where are you going now?" Ellen asked. "You just got here."

"I'm going by Jefferson's," Sam said. "I'm going to find what did this and stop it before it kills someone else."

He was almost at the door when he felt someone catch his shoulder. He yanked himself out of the hold and turned to see Dean's eyes fixed on him, his hand quickly falling back to his side.

"Sorry, man," he said. "I forgot… Look, I believe you. If you think there's more to this, I'm in. I'll come and help."

It was on Sam's tongue to tell him no, that he didn't want or need help, but he saw something in Dean's eyes that made him stop. Dean _wanted_ to help. It wasn't just about pacifying Sam. He wanted to be a part of it. "Okay. Come with."

Dean smiled and jogged back to his stool to grab his coat.

"I could—" Jo started.

"No!" Sam said curtly, cutting her off. "You can't."

He let the door slam closed behind them.

* * *

"Sam," Dean said in a hushed voice.

"Yes, Dean."

"What are we doing?"

"We're waiting."

"For…?"

"That," Sam said, unfolding himself from the seat and climbing out as the last bedroom light on the street went out.

Dean got out too and looked at him over the roof of the car. "We're waiting for dark because?"

Sam smiled. "Because most people frown upon breaking and entering, Dean." Comprehension dawned and Sam saw a flicker of unease dance in Dean's eyes. "You don't have to come," he said. "I know you've got the whole civilian life to protect."

"But you're going in anyway," Dean stated.

"Yeah. I need to see where it happened." He was sure if he did, he would see signs of a struggle that the hapless cops had missed. He wanted to find something he could hold up as evidence against the fact Jefferson had killed himself.

"Then I'm coming, too," Dean said with a nod. He looked as though he was psyching himself up for it.

Sam shrugged. "Your choice."

He glanced up and down the dark street one more time, checking for anyone watching, and then made for the front door.

"Ellen said it happened in the garage," Dean hissed.

"Which has a big ass door that'll make a hell of a noise if we open it," Sam said. "Jefferson's kitchen leads into the garage. We can make it in quieter that way."

He knelt and pulled out his picking tools. It was a simple lock—the cops hadn't bothered to even put the deadbolt on when they'd finished poking through the house apparently—and Sam soon had it. He eased open the door and slipped inside. Dean hesitated on the front step for an instant and then he followed.

Sam had been to Jefferson's house a handful of times both with John and without, and he quickly made his way through the kitchen and into the garage.

They'd cut Jefferson down, but they hadn't unlooped the rope that hung over the roof beam or moved the stepladder he'd obviously used. No, Sam reminded himself, that the thing that had killed Jefferson had used. It was still propped in place near the remains of the rope.

His gaze roved over the walls and floor searching for something, any sign that there had been someone or something else there, but there was nothing.

"Hey, Sam, have a look at this."

Irritated, Sam realized Dean hadn't followed him into the garage. His voice was coming from the kitchen. He stomped to his side. "What?"

Dean held up a yellow smudged fingertip. "Sulfur."

"I knew it!" Sam said triumphantly, his irritation vanishing. "Jefferson didn't kill himself."

"Yeah, I'm real happy for you," Dean said, "but doesn't this open up a whole new ass-load of problems? It was a demon, and obviously the next step's to deal with it, but didn't you say there are literally hundreds of demons walking the earth on any given day? How are we going to find the one that did it?"

"Dammit." Dean was right. There was no way to know _which_ demon had done it. Short of chasing down every demon in the world, there was nothing they could do. Sam groaned. Did this mean they had to chalk it up to fate and leave it? Sam couldn't do that. Jefferson deserved to be avenged. And who was to say this demon wouldn't do it again to someone else?

Sam's phone rang and he answered, sounding defeated.

"Yeah?"

"It's me," Ellen said. "Look, Sam, there's no way to sugarcoat this—Rick's dead."

Sam hissed between his teeth. Another hunter dead. How could he be? Sam had only spoken to him just a few hours ago. "What happened?"

"It's nasty."

"Death usually is," Sam said dryly.

"Sam… it was another suicide. He shoved his switchblade through his eye into his brain in the parking lot. Only I don't think it _was_ him. We found something."

"Let me guess: sulfur."

"How did you know?" she asked.

"Because we just got to Jefferson's and found some here, too."

"What the hell kinda demon does that?"

"One that's got a hate on for hunters?" Sam guessed. "Look, keep whoever's still around there inside. Call around for anyone who's not. Lay down fresh salt and double check the devil's traps at the doors. I've got to get Dean situated and then I'll be there. Maybe someone will have an idea of what to do."

"Okay. We'll see you real soon. And, Sam, for God's sake be careful."

"Always am."

He snapped the phone shut, shoved it back in his pocket and turned to looked at Dean who looked very unimpressed. "Situated?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said intractably. "We need to get you somewhere safe. I think Bobby's place is our best bet. It's close and Dad always said it was the best protected place there was."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "And I'm supposed to sit at Bobby's, nice and safe, while you're going after a demon?"

"Yes."

"Sam, I'm not some kid. I've been working my ass off learning about demons for things like this. I don't need taking care of."

"Twice, Dean!" Sam snapped. "Twice you've almost been killed because of your connection to me. It sounds like this demon is going after hunters. You think it'll skip you because you've spent a couple months practicing?"

"I can take care of myself," Dean said obstinately.

"So could Jefferson and Rick, and they're dead now."

"I'll be careful. I can protect myself."

"You think after all those years in the life that they didn't protect themselves, too?"

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "They didn't know what they were facing, Sam. I do. I want in."

Sam turned away, clenching his fists. The stubborn ass was going to get himself killed. Short of manhandling Dean to Bobby's—and that probably wouldn't work now that Dean was training again—he couldn't stop him. Unless… Bobby would come down on his side. He had to. He cared about Dean and he had to have heard about at least one of Dean's recent near misses. If he could just get Dean to his place, he could come up with a way of keeping him there. And If it came down to tying him to a chair… Sometimes you had to do what you had to do.

Sam smiled slightly and then schooled his expression into one of defeat and he looked back to Dean. "Fine. You can come along, but we _are_ going to Bobby's first. I want to check on him and see if he's got any ideas about what we can do to track this demon down."

Dean nodded solemnly. "Okay. Makes sense."

"I don't like this," Sam said honestly—he _didn't_ like the idea of tricking his brother and possibly locking him down.

Dean made like he wanted to clap Sam on the shoulder, but he stopped with his arm half raised and Sam headed for the front door.

"C'mon, let's get going," Sam said. "We need to work something out before this demon takes another hunter down."

* * *

Though it was around midnight by the time they arrived at Bobby's, lights were burning in the windows.

Dean led the way for once, Sam following him to the door feeling slightly uncomfortable. The last couple of times he'd seen Bobby, things hadn't exactly ended well.

Dean knocked and called, "Bobby, it's Dean. Sam's with me."

There was the sound of multiple bolts disengaging and then the door opened.

"Hey there, fellas. Long time no see." Though he was speaking to them both, his eyes fell on Sam. He gestured them inside, and Sam followed Dean in.

"I heard about Jefferson," Bobby said. "I'm real sorry."

"Rick, too," Sam said somberly.

Bobby shook his head mournfully. "Damn… What the hell's happening?"

"A demon," Dean supplied. "We found sulfur."

"A demon's icing people?"

Dean nodded. "Making it look like suicides."

"What can I do?" Bobby asked.

"We wanted to make sure you were okay, really," Dean said, as Sam glanced around, taking in the room. Something felt wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "And see if you've got any ideas about what we do next."

Bobby tugged off his cap and ran a hand through his hair. "I can't think of anything straight up. Give me an hour to think and I'll maybe have something though. I've got a couple books I haven't delved into in a while. Maybe there'll be something helpful in them. Why don't you have a look Sam? They're on the shelf behind the desk. Texts of Rites and The Daemon Dierum. "

Sam walked into the library and to the desk. As he walked by the desk, his eyes drifted down to the bottle of whiskey sitting in front of Bobby's chair. He would really appreciate a drink, even some of Bobby's old rotgut. Then something else caught his attention and he stiffened slightly. Only for a second before he marshaled himself. There was a smudge of yellow powder on the side of the bottle, and an old pistol sitting beside the dirty glass.

"You expecting trouble, Bobby?" he asked, lifting the gun.

"I'm always expecting trouble. All good hunters are. You should know that better than anyone, Sam."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. You're right. Hey, you mind if I have a drink? It's been a hell of a day."

"Help yourself," Bobby said.

Sam picked up the bottle by the neck and walked back to the kitchen. He didn't amble so as to look relaxed and unthreatening—that would arouse suspicion—but neither did he let his extreme tension show in his movements. He grabbed a glass from where it was drying beside the sink and poured a generous measure. "Anyone else want one?" he asked.

Bobby shook his head. "Nah. I think I've had enough for today."

"C'mon, Bobby," Sam said in a relaxed voice. "Have a drink."

Ignoring Dean's cry of protest, Sam lifted the bottle into the air and brought it down hard on Bobby's head. He toppled back, eyes rolling back, and hit the floor like a sack of flour.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean shouted, then a look of horror crossed his face. "Christo!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not possessed, Dean. But he is." He nudged Bobby with a foot.

"How do you know?"

"Sulfur." Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out his flask of holy water. "But let's be sure." He splashed a few drops on to Bobby's face and smiled grimly as the skin sizzled and smoked. "Yep. Demon."

Dean looked aghast. "Damn."

"Help me get him locked down," Sam said, bending and picking Bobby up under the arms. "Don't want him waking up before we're ready. I'm not in the mood to deal with a pissed off demon."

* * *

Dean knew his brother was a damn good hunter, but he'd never seen him in action before. He would never tell Sam, it would possibly ruin what they were working so hard on rebuilding, but he scared him a little. He was so damn calm, steady, as if he had no fear at all.

Dean did not feel steady.

For all his thoughts of being ready and what he had said when persuading Sam to take him along, he was realizing now that he wasn't remotely ready.

Sam was though, and as he handed Dean the flask of holy water, he smiled slightly. "You ready for this?"

"Ready?"

"The exorcism, Dean. It's your big moment. We're going to wake him up with a little holy water and then you're going to get to work."

Dean swallowed down the fear and nodded. He was safe, he reminded himself; they both were. Bobby was tied down tight and in the devil's trap. Sam was there. He knew the Latin. He could do this. Calm seeped into him, and he wondered if this was how Sam felt all the time.

He tipped the flask and holy water splashed onto Bobby. Dean flinched a little, but forced himself to watch as Bobby's skin hissed and smoked.

"It's not hurting him," Sam said. "Just the demon."

"Oh, don't be so sure about that," the demon said as its black eyes opened. "Bobby sure is hurting right now."

"Lie," Sam said idly.

He grinned. "How can you be sure?"

Sam shrugged. "Demons lie. Doesn't matter much either way. You'll be gone soon enough and it won't be a problem."

"You won't exorcise me," Bobby said. "Not yet."

"You're right," Sam said. "I won't. He will." He jerked his head in Dean's direction.

"Don't you want to know how I did it?"

"I'm sure it's an epic tale of evil, but we're not interested," Sam said.

"Okay," the demon said. "Don't you want to know _why_ I did it?"

"You're a demon," Dean said. "This is the sort of thing you get kicks out of."

Dean tilted his head to the side. "Ah, he speaks. What's the matter, Dean? You too busy fighting the urge to pee yourself from fear to speak up earlier?"

Sam scoffed. "He's not afraid. He's a Winchester."

Dean felt a small surge of pride at Sam's defense. He _was_ a Winchester, and he was damn well sending this thing back to hell. He took a deep breath and started. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus."_

"It's all because of you, Sam," the demon said.

Sam shook his head. "Don't care."

"Oh, but you do. You want to know what happened this time to set more deaths to your account. Poor Jefferson, you know he was aware of what was about to happen just before he died. I left him just after the jump. He would have known what was happening just before his neck snapped. And Rick… I let him watch as I slowly drove the knife towards his eyes. He felt it all."

"Don't care," Sam said again, but Dean could hear a thread of tension in his voice now.

_"Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion…" _

"I owed you, see," Bobby's voice continued even though the Latin was obviously starting to affect the demon. "You hurt someone I care about."

"Demons care about no one but themselves," Sam said.

"You're wrong. There are some of us that do care. I have a little family. No mother, but a father and a sister. You sent my sister back to the pit."

Sam laughed. "Meg? This is about Meg?"

"That's not her name. That the name of the meat suit."

"How many times?" Sam asked in a tired voice. "I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, you're all filth. Your _sister_ is where she belongs, and Yellow-Eyes will soon be dead."

The demon laughed long and hard.

Dean finished harshly, his voice a growl. _"Te rogamus, audi nos."_

The demon's head flew back and black smoke poured out. Dean watched it ebb and flow, a surge of pride in him. He had done that. The demon was gone because of him.

When the smoke was gone, he noticed a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Sam grinning at him. "Nice work."

* * *

**So… Dean nailed his first demon—naturally. The idea for the demon possessing hunters and having them kill themselves came from a dream Gredelina1 had. I thought it was cool and, with her permission, put it in the story. **

**A little bit of news: Sequel! There will be a sequel to Bond Of Brotherhood. I was going to save the announcement until the last chapter, but I just finished writing about an hour ago and couldn't wait to tell you all. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	19. Chapter 18

**Thank you to the fabulous Jenjoremy for the beta and general make-better job and SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for all their help and support. You ladies are the best.**

* * *

**_Chapter Eighteen_**

Sam pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator, coaxing a little more speed out of the engine. Ellen had called and told him he needed to get to the Roadhouse as soon as possible. She had sounded tense, not tense enough that Sam thought she was under attack, but tense enough to make him wonder what trouble had rolled in this time.

He'd been heading back to the Roadhouse anyway; he had no hunts lined up and thought a little downtime would be good. He'd catch a couple days rest there and then see if Dean's work schedule allowed him any free time for the weekend. They could maybe see a movie or catch a Huskers game. They'd done that a few times and while it had felt strange for Sam sit in the stands eating a hot dog with civilians, he couldn't deny it was a good kind of strange, like he almost belonged.

In another life maybe he would have.

The parking lot was half full when he arrived, and he noticed Dean's bike parked among the cars. That worried him. Despite the fact Dean handled Bobby's possession like a pro in the end—even though he'd been nervous as hell—Sam still preferred it when his brother stayed clear of things like this. It was safer for him that way.

Sam climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut hard behind him. Any hope of stealth was gone with the rumble of the engine, so if there _was_ something bad in there, it would know he was coming, so it might as well know he was pissed. He checked the clip of his gun and then tucked it into the back of his pants. He could draw fast and it would look better to go in apparently unarmed.

The bar door opened then and Kubrick stepped out. "Hey, Winchester," he said, catching sight of Sam. "I've been wanting a word with you."

Sam frowned and gestured for him to go on with a wave of his hand.

"Gordon," Kubrick said. "He's gone AWOL."

Sam allowed no sign of his tension to appear on his face. He wanted to get this over with so he could get inside. But at the same time he couldn't tip Kubrick off. How much did he know of Gordon's plans for Sam and Dean? Sam had covered his tracks well, but if Gordon had blabbed before he went after Dean, there was going to be trouble. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. I know he met up with you for a fang hunt. I got a text a couple days later saying he had found something big and was following it up, but I haven't heard anything since."

Sam nodded. He'd fired off the text before dumping Gordon's phone onto the pyre with the rest of the man who had tried to kill him. "I haven't seen him," he lied. "We split after the hunt; figured it was best for us to both disappear since we'd made quite a mess, and that was the last time I saw him. You know Gordon, though. Once he gets something into his head, he's like a dog with a bone. Whatever this 'big' thing is, it's probably got him lying low."

Kubrick nodded. "Yeah. Probably." He came forward and made to clap Sam on the shoulder. Sam stepped back. "Well, I'll see you, Winchester," he said awkwardly.

Sam nodded and watched him amble over to his RV. When he was gone, Sam went into the bar, senses on high alert for any sign of what had made Ellen call. It couldn't be too big if Kubrick was leaving, unless it was happening behind the scenes. The idea that Ash could have come up with something about the Demon occurred to him and he hurried inside.

There was nothing obviously amiss in the bar. Tables were occupied by hunters, but there were also a few unfamiliar faces that Sam took in with a sweep of his eyes across the room. His looked to the bar and saw Ellen waving him over.

"What's happened?" he asked her in a low voice when he got to the bar.

"Come to the back," she said.

Sam crossed the room, feeling the reassuring weight of the gun at his back. He stepped ahead of her, wanting to be the first in, and passed through the door that led to the private quarters. The bedroom doors were closed but the kitchen was ajar. He checked to make sure Ellen was behind him and eased it open.

"Surprise!" voices chorused and Sam drew his gun before even taking in the room properly. When he did, both his gun and jaw lowered.

Dean, Jo and Ash were standing at the back of the room, bottles of beer in hand and ridiculous, colorful party hats on their heads. As if oblivious to how stupid they looked, they were smiling widely.

Ellen slipped past him and picked up a beer from the crate on the floor. She twisted off the top and handed it to Sam. "Have a drink, honey."

Sam obeyed, wiped his mouth, and asked, "Okay. Are you all on crack or is there a reason you look like…"—he pointed his bottle in their direction—"this?"

Dean looked aghast. "You forgot? Tell me didn't forget, Sam."

"Forget that we made plans to get drunk looking like five-year-olds? Yeah, I forgot."

Jo rolled her eyes. "Forget your _birthday_, Sam."

Sam had another swig of his beer. He had forgotten, or rather he had lost track of the date. He'd known it was coming, but then he'd gone in on that skinwalker hunt, and arbitrary dates had left his mind.

Ellen spoke at his side. "Never mind. You're here now. We can start celebrating."

Sam didn't particularly want to celebrate, but he looked at their bright, excited faces and realized this wasn't about what _he_ wanted. They were the ones this was really for. And he owed them. They'd put up with his crap lately, his moody, sometimes life-endangering crap, and the least he could do was paste on a smile now and act like he was having fun.

"Okay," he said, trying to force brightness into his tone. "Take off the stupid hats and we'll party."

Ellen looked at him knowingly, but Dean, Jo and Ash seemed pleased. Sam sat down at the table and clasped his beer in his hands. "Did anyone bring cake?"

* * *

"Okay…" Jo said, giggling, "he was so into it. And he had this wand that he carried everywhere."

Ellen smiled nostalgically. "I remember that. I told him I'd make him a cape, but he told me, very politely, that real wizards didn't wear silly capes."

Dean was doubled over laughing, and Sam was trying his best not to join him. He remembered that summer. It had been a good one. He'd spent four weeks with Ellen and Jo while John took a cross country hunt. He'd been a kid for a while. No training. No research. Just days spent playing with Jo.

"And if I remember rightly, you wanted your mom to make you a sparkly dress so you could be my assistant," Sam said.

Jo hid her face in her hands. "I forgot."

"Yeah? Maybe you should think a little harder before you try to embarrass me," Sam said.

Dean choked himself to calm and said, "You think _that's_ funny, did Sam ever tell you about how he was going to be an astronaut?"

"No," Jo said excitedly. "Spill!"

Dean grinned across the table and Sam tried to warn him with a look alone to keep his mouth shut. Dean either didn't appreciate the death glare or was just too loaded to care. "So, some space shuttle had gone up for something or other…"

"Endeavour," Sam supplied.

Dean laughed again. "Yeah, that one. Anyway. There was a girl staying in the same motel as us. Hot… hotter than hot."

"Also eighteen and way out of your league," Sam said.

Dean nodded happily. "Probably. Didn't matter to me though. I was a man on a mission. But, see in those days Sam was still trailing me, and I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere while she was cooing over how cute he was in all his eleven-year-old glory, so I settled him down with the TV for a while. Well, I get back a few hours later, and he's _still_ glued to the TV. He tells me, excited as all hell, that they just sent people into space. He was so buzzed about it, like you wouldn't believe."

"Oh, Sam," Jo said. "That's just so…"

"Say cute and I'll take away the beer," Sam warned.

She pretended to zip her lips.

"That started this whole obsession with space," Dean went on. "When we were the library, me and dad used to research while Sam killed time in the children's section. After that Sam was all about the research, too. He could spout all these facts about space and the moon mission off by heart. Drove us damn crazy. And then…" Dean doubled over again. "I came home one day to find the squirt had wrapped himself in aluminum foil. Said it was his space suit."

Jo collapsed over the table, laughing fit to bust.

"I got him this toy rocket for his birthday," Dean said. "And he took the damn thing everywhere." He shook his head and took a swig of his beer. "Good times."

"Okay," Sam said. "That's enough embarrassing stories about me. I need a real drink."

"I'll come with," Ellen said. "I should check on Ash. He's probably making a mess of running the bar."

They stood and walked back through to the bar. Sam grabbed a bottle of whiskey and leaned against the bar for a moment.

"He's good for you, you know," Ellen said, coming to lean beside him. "You haven't looked like this in a long time."

"You mean embarrassed as all hell?"

"Relaxed. Happy. I've missed this side of you so much. Do you even realize you've been talking about John in there without flinching?"

Sam hadn't realized.

"He's good for you," Ellen said again.

She was right. Dean was good for him. He made him feel something other than the aching loneliness he'd felt since John's death. It scared him sometimes. Attachments were bad when you were a hunter. People got hurt. Dean _had_ been hurt because of him. But Ellen said he was safer with Sam in his life. That wasn't the only reason he didn't stay away though. He liked having Dean around. It felt good to have family again, real, honest to God blood family. He'd never thought he'd have that again.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "He is."

She beamed at him and reached up to touch his face. Sam didn't like to be touched, but he didn't pull back. He let her cup his cheek in her hand. "I'm glad you're back, Sam."

"I haven't been gone long," Sam said with a small smile.

"That's where you're wrong," she sighed. "You've been gone a long time."

Sam turned away, feeling awkward, and spotted someone coming through the door that made his good mood vanish. "What the hell is he doing here?" he growled.

Ellen looked around. "He's been in a lot recently. Taken up the life apparently."

Sam strode around the bar towards the door. Dom saw him coming, and for a moment he looked like he was going to go out again, but then he stiffened and straightened. "Winchester," he said in a low voice.

Sam didn't even pause. He grabbed him around the throat and pushed him against the wall. "Why are you here?"

"I want a drink," Dom said. He was very different from the man Sam had met and hunted with. He had bulked up quite a bit and a long scar ran from the corner of his eye to his jaw. The changes weren't all physical, though. His once friendly eyes were now hard, and he had gained a confidence he hadn't had before.

"You're still hunting?" Sam growled.

"So are you," Dom said. "I'd say we could team up but I haven't got anyone I care about for you to murder now, and I know how much you enjoyed that last time."

Sam shook him roughly. "I did what I had to do," Sam said bitterly. "I did what any hunter in this place would have done."

Sam felt a presence at his side, and he prepared to defend himself, but it was just Dean, his brow furrowed. "What's going on"? he asked.

"This _murderer,_" Dom spat, "has attacked me."

"This murderer took down a werewolf!" Sam growled. "That's called hunting."

"You didn't give him a chance," Dom said bitterly. "I could have helped him. I could have controlled him."

"You couldn't. You would have died and so would others." Sam released him and turned away. All eyes in the room were watching them curiously so he addressed his next comments to the crowd. "I took a hunt with him and his hapless friend. They didn't listen to what I told them to do, and his buddy got bitten by a werewolf. I put him down. Can anyone in here tell me honestly he wouldn't have done the same thing?"

There was a murmur of voices and heads were being shaken. Walt, one of the hunters who had taught Jeff and Dom the ropes, stood and came towards them. Sam stiffened, ready to fight, but Walt didn't attack. He put a hand on Dom's shoulder and said, "He did the right thing, Dom. I'd have done the same. Any one of us would. We told you when you said you were joining us that there were risks to it and it wasn't a game. I don't know what happened there, but I know Winchester would have made the right call. If Jeff died, it was because there was no choice."

Sam turned back, to see if Walt's words had penetrated Dom's stupidity, just in time to see a fist flying at his face. He made to block it, but someone else had already acted. Dean had Dom pinned against the wall. "Go near my brother again, and I swear you'll regret it," Dean snarled in his ear.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said, patting his arm. Dean released Dom and stepped back.

"Give it up, Dom," Sam said. "Go back to your own life and make something of it. You're not a hunter; you're an accident waiting to happen. Trust me, you don't want this life. It will destroy you." Dom looked mutinous, and Sam went on. "Don't you see? You don't have to do this. You've still got a chance at a normal life! Not one of the hunters in this bar has that chance anymore. We're all in too deep, but you can get out."

He'd said enough. He turned away and walked back to the bar. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and headed back into the kitchen, Dean behind him.

He didn't think there would be more laughter. He had an idea that there would be another conversation with Dean about how he was free to leave the life, too. Dean was wrong though. Sam was a hunter. He couldn't walk away from that. At least not until The Demon was dead. Probably not even then.

* * *

Dean was cleaning when heard the knock on the door. He answered to see a grim faced Sam on the stoop.

Dean led him into the house, and when the door shut behind him, he turned and asked, "What's wrong?"

"I've got us another demon. You up for it?"

"Yeah," Dean said quickly.

"Then pack your stuff. We're going to Wyoming."

Dean went into his bedroom and packed up enough for a couple nights. He thought it would be over in one, but John Winchester had taught him to go in prepared. He shoved a bottle of holy water on top of his clothes and the notes he had made of the exorcism rites in case his memory failed him.

Sam was leaning against the front door, waiting for him. He still looked grim, and Dean wondered if it was just the fact he was going along that was troubling Sam. He'd surely battled enough demons in his time to not feel nervous now. Then again, as far as Dean knew, the last demon he'd taken on was using Bobby, someone he'd once and possibly still cared about, as a meat suit. That was probably enough to make him tense.

They set out in the Impala. The drive wasn't silent this time, but Sam was definitely preoccupied. Dean spent his time in shotgun looking over his notes, committing the words to memory one last time. When they switched off, Sam sat staring out of the windshield.

Sam apparently knew the area well, and he directed Dean to the motel on the outskirts of town. He booked them in while Dean waited outside by the car.

Dean felt a wave of nostalgia when they went into their room. The walls were puce and the red bedding stained. The TV was about as big as Dean's laptop screen and the whole room smelled damp. It was like meeting an old friend again.

Sam claimed the first shower, leaving Dean to flick through the channels on the cheap cable.

When Dean had showered and changed, he found Sam reclining on the bed, reading the journal. Dean noticed that, though he'd changed, he'd just switched into clean jeans and shirt. He'd even put his heavy boots on again. Their father had always done that, too. He was ready at all times for trouble, even when sleeping. Dean felt a little embarrassed to be in his sweatpants. Sam didn't seem to notice though, he just carried on reading.

After a largely sleepless night for them both—Dean was wound too tight for proper rest—they grabbed coffees from a local diner. Sam had told Dean they could eat, but it was obvious he didn't want to, and Dean's stomach was too full of knots to try. He wasn't scared exactly, but he was nervous. He'd only exorcised one demon before, and so much rode on this one. He had to get it right if Sam was to trust him to go along for Yellow-Eyes.

"Where's the demon?" Dean asked.

"Crossroads outside town," Sam replied dourly.

"We're going after a crossroads demon?"

Sam nodded without speaking and pulled the car out into the light traffic flow. Dean let his thoughts fill him as Sam drove. After what had happened to their father, it made sense for Sam to want to go after a crossroads demon, and it certainly made it easier for them to track one down. Dean's mind was unsettled though. If Sam was going into this for revenge, he might not be fully focused on the mission, and he could get hurt. If he was relying on Dean alone to take it out, he could get hurt. Dean didn't want to be the reason Sam was hurt, not again. He tried to find a tactful way to share his concerns, but before he could, Sam was pulling the car to a halt and climbing out. Dean followed him out and to the trunk where Sam retrieved two spray-paint cans.

"You remember the devil's trap?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded.

"Then help me spray it in. It's got to be big, big enough that when the demon comes, it'll arrive in the trap."

Dean grinned. "Damn, that's smart."

"It was dad's idea," Sam said. "We tried it out a couple times, and it worked out all right."

It helped to settle Dean's nerves and fear of responsibility, too. If the demon was in a trap, it couldn't hurt anyone. It was stuck there until Dean exorcised it.

They painted in the trap, Dean taking care to make the lines smooth, allowing no gaps to break the circle. When it was done, Sam stepped back and checked it over.

"We're good."

Sam went back to the trunk and took out a small tin. He handled it carefully, as if it was a weapon, and then gestured Dean over.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"It's what you need to summon a crossroads demon. Graveyard dirt, black cat bone, yarrow and a picture." He flipped the tin open and pulled out a scrap of paper, shoving it in his pocket before Dean had a chance to see what it was. "Grab me one of my IDs from the box."

Dean did as he was bidden and Sam tucked it into the tin and snapped it shut. He walked to the center of the crossroads and dug a shallow hole with his hands, careful to keep away from the lines of the devil's trap. He stamped the dirt down over it and walked out of the trap.

"Now what?" Dean asked.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. "We wait. It'll be here soon."

Dean stood beside his brother, his eyes fixed on the trap. He didn't see the demon arrive—he had to have blinked. One moment it was just the two of them, and then it was there. It was in the body of a woman who looked to be around Dean's age. It wore a navy dress that it straightened as it walked towards them.

"Winchester," it said. "I was wondering when you'd come. Good to see you. And who's this?"

Sam didn't answer. He just moved his gaze slowly from the demon's face to its feet where it stood on the edges of the devil's trap and smiled.

The demon looked down, too. "You have got to be kidding me," it snarled.

"No," Sam said harshly. "We're deadly serious. Dean, want to get to it?"

Dean pulled the notes from his pocket, but he didn't need to look at them as he began the chant.

"You don't want to do this!" the demon shouted. "You can't."

"Do. Can," Sam said as Dean continued to recite the Latin. "We owe you."

"I'm warning you. I'll be back, and I'll be pissed."

"Not as pissed as I am," Sam replied.

"Audi nos!" Dean finished, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The demon's head flung back and black smoke poured from its mouth. When the smoke was gone, Sam hurried forward and knelt beside the girl the demon had been possessing. He pressed fingertips to her throat and nodded.

"Dig up the box," he commanded Dean, pulling out his phone. His urgency infected Dean, and he hurried to obey.

Sam had his phone to his ear and he was speaking quickly. "Yeah, I need an ambulance at the Rock Creek and Prairie Breeze crossroads. My name? Yeah, my name is—" He tapped a button on his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. "In the car."

Again, Dean obeyed, aware of the trouble that could hit them if they were found with an unconscious woman in the middle of what looked like a satanic symbol painted into the road, not to mention what would happen if the cops found the arsenal in the trunk.

Sam gunned the engine and they roared away. It wasn't until they were almost back at the motel that Dean felt his pulse returning to something close to normal. Away from the crossroads and the situation, he was able to think clearly again, and he remembered something, a question he had.

"Sam…" he started.

"Hell of a buzz, right?" Sam asked excitedly, not sounding like himself.

"Yeah, it was great," Dean said distractedly. "But there's something else."

Sam's hands clenched into fists around the steering wheel. "What?"

"You said that we owed the demon something. What's the deal? That's wasn't the demon that possessed me, was it? Not Meg?"

Sam shook his head curtly. "No. It wasn't her."

"Then what do we owe it? What do _I _owe it?"

Sam hesitated then licked his lips. "That box I used, that was the one Dad used. That demon you exorcised, that was the demon Dad dealt with. We owed it because that was the thing that sent our father to Hell."

* * *

**So… The boys got a little revenge. They needed it. Shame they didn't have the Colt really. That would have been so much more satisfying. **

**Hope you're enjoying. **

**Until next time…**

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	20. Chapter 19

**Thank you hugs to Jenjoremy for beta'ing, and to Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for general awesomeness.**

* * *

**_Chapter Nineteen_**

Sam had the most awful dream. In it, his father was dead and Dean had been gone for years. He'd found Dean again, or rather Dean had found him, only to almost lose him again twice in the same weekend. He dreamed he killed people, one of them a laughing man who had wanted to be a hunter. The other had been self-defense, but that didn't make it any easier for Sam's mind to accept. He was a murderer. He was different in his dream, too; he could feel it. He was… wrong, cold, hard, disconnected. That scared him almost as much as the murders.

He forced his eyes opened and rolled onto his back from the twisted, torqued position he had been in. His arm nudged something, and his gaze snapped to the side. There was a woman lying beside him, her long blonde hair fanned around her head and her lips parted by sleep. Who the…

_Jess,_ his mind supplied_, it's only Jess. _

That was right. How could he have forgotten his girlfriend? He shook his head briskly, shaking away the thought and the dream… at least he tried. The dream remained stubbornly at the forefront of his mind, teasing and taunting him. It made it impossible to think of anything else. The images that ravaged his mind were horrific. John lying on the dirt beside the Impala, chest torn to ribbons and eyes glazed with death. Dean on a hardwood floor, face ashen and sheened with sweat. A glass bottle was imbedded in his wrist and Sam was pushing down so hard around it to keep the vital, life giving blood in his body, and his mind was screaming_—don't die!—_though Sam's mouth was still.

Jess snuffled and rolled over, still deep in sleep, and Sam smiled slightly. It was okay. It was just a dream. He wasn't that person. The people he loved were safe. He was going to…

_See them soon. You will see them soon. _

Yes, he would see them soon. Something was coming, he just couldn't remember what.

He wouldn't sleep anymore that night for risk of falling back into the dream. He would do something…

_Prepare. They're coming. _

He would get ready. That was good. That would keep his mind occupied.

He'd stood and made for the door when he heard a sound. It was a thud and a muffled curse. His muscles bunched and his nerves triggered like an electric shock. Someone was there. Someone who didn't belong.

He bent and picked up the baseball bat from beside the bed. Whatever jackass thought it was a good idea to break in here was going to get a hell of a shock. A shadow passed by the open door. Sam crept forward on silent feet, and then sprang into action. He swung the bat through the air—it whistled—but before it could make contact, a hand caught his wrist and twisted. He dropped the bat and hissed between his teeth. The hand released him and he swung out a fist. The shadow dodged the blow, laughing a familiar laugh, and twisted his arm up. Sam stamped down on a foot and there was a grunt of pain. He was released and he stepped back on the balls of his feet, deciding where to aim next, but the shadow was in motion already. It kicked him in the gut, and when he doubled over, it swept his legs out from under him. Sam fell back onto the floor, and the shadow loomed over him, a knee on his chest.

The shadow spoke. "Whoa, easy, tiger."

"Dean?"

_Of course, it's Dean. Who else would it be? He's here to collect you for…_

"Did you forget?" Dean asked, and something from his dream prodded at him. _"Tell me didn't forget, Sam."_

_It's summer break, Sam, _his mind supplied. _What happens on summer break?_

"Time to rejoin the real world," Dean said, a laugh in his voice. "We're going hunting."

_Of course you are. That's the deal. You study all year and give your summers to the hunt. That's what you agreed._

Sam patted Dean's arm. "Lost track of time I guess. You need to let me up."

Dean's knee pressed down a little harder and he grinned. "I don't know if I should. You look like you need the practice before we hit the road. That was so easy I'm embarrassed for you."

Sam brought up a knee and knocked Dean to the side. In a move John Winchester would have been proud of, he had Dean pinned on his back. It was his turn to laugh now. "You were saying?"

Dean looked unabashed. "Don't be too smug, Sam. Remember I was the one who taught you to fight in the first place."

Another flash of the dream. Sam and Dean sparring in the woods. Dean was clumsy and easy to read at first, his other life making him soft.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam released him and stood. "Yeah, just having a weird night. Strange dream."

"Aw, poor, Sammy. You can tell me all about it on the ride."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah, I'll be sure to do that."

He walked back into the bedroom and spotted his duffel on the floor in front of the closet.

_You packed last night, remember? After Dad called and said Dean was on his way. _

Jess stirred as he picked up his bag. "What time is it?" she slurred.

"It's early," Sam said. "I've got to go. Dean's here."

She grumbled and climbed sleepily from the bed. "Better come say hi."

Sam followed her as she stumbled into the lounge where Dean was waiting, his attention fixed on the photographs of Sam and Jess and their families on the wall. He turned as Jess came in and grinned at her.

"Jess, good to see you."

"You, too," she said with a smile, waking up now. "Sam tell you about finals?"

"Let me guess," he said in a disapproving tone, "he skipped them all to play Pac Man in the student's lounge."

Jess scoffed. "Yeah, right. He aced them. Again." She stepped closer to Sam and wrapped an arm around his waist. It felt… wrong? As if he shouldn't be holding her like that. Maybe it was because Dean was there. It was stupid since he'd pretty much spent his teen years walking in on Dean locking lips with one girl or another.

_It's not wrong. It's right. _

"C'mon, Sammy, daylight's wasting," Dean said, giving Sam an excuse to move away from Jess and the awkward contact.

"Dean, daylight's not even arrived yet," Jess corrected.

"I know, I know. You college students are all about sleeping late, but college is over for Sammy for now, so it's time to follow the Winchester clock.

Sam turned to Jess and gave her an apologetic smile. "I'll call you."

"You better," she said. She stood on tiptoes, lips presented for a kiss. Sam obeyed chastely—it still didn't feel _right—_and then shouldered his duffel. "Have fun doing whatever it is you boys do on these road trips. Be safe and come back to me."

"Of course," Sam said.

"See ya," Dean called, waving a hand at Jess.

Sam turned back at the door and saw Jess staring after him longingly. He pushed aside the feeling of wrongness and smiled.

_It was just the dream,_ he told himself. _Just the dream. That wasn't real. This—Jess, Dean, hunting—was. _

* * *

Sam and Dean were powering along Route 85 toward Jericho, the Impala eating up the miles. _This_ felt right to Sam, being on the road. The rumble of the engine and slight vibration of the seats was familiar to him. This was not the dream. This was real.

"So," Dean said with a long suffering sigh, "you going to ask about the hunt or you going to let me do all the heavy lifting?"

Sam smiled. "What's the hunt?"

"Me and Dad thought we'd ease you back in, so we did a lot of the legwork already. Let's see if college has rotted your brain. We've got young men all disappearing on the same stretch of highway. Local legend is of a woman who was murdered on the bridge. Local legend—as usual—is bull. The real deal is that the woman took a swan dive off the bridge out of guilt. Can you guess why?"

"She killed her children," Sam replied quickly. "Woman in white."

Dean turned to stare at him wide-eyed. "You're kidding me! Tell me Dad already called in with the facts and you did your own research."

"No can do," Sam said. "It's kinda obvious."

"Damn," Dean slapped his hand down on the wheel. "Took me and Dad an age to get the info and work this one out. You sure you want to waste that brain on a law career?"

"Yes," Sam said quickly.

He wasn't telling the whole truth though. The truth was that a woman in white had been a part of his dream—even down to the town she was haunting. He and John had gone after it together over a year ago. In the life he had led without his brother, the life in which he was hard and cold and just plain _wrong_. He didn't understand how he could have known so many details though, even down to the town the woman was haunting. There had been something about psychics in his dream, but that was a load of crap. Psychics didn't exist.

"Well, we're going to have to do a little more legwork on this one, Sammy," Dean said. "Because the woman we think it is was cremated and we've no clues about what's tethering her."

"We'll work it out," Sam said confidently. They always did. John and Dean were the best damn hunters there were. Better than Bobby or Pastor Jim or Caleb. They had a dedication to the hunt that surpassed the others. For every life they saved, for every hunt they took, there was another, more important one, to come—the thing that had killed Mary.

In the dream, Sam had been the better hunter. Dean had been the civilian, living on the periphery of the life.

_Not real,_ his mind whispered. _Can you really imagine Dean as a social worker? Can you imagine Dad leaving him behind?_

Sam couldn't. John was dedicated to family. He never gave up on them. Even when Sam had been ready to leave them all behind to follow his dream of becoming a lawyer, when he'd been ready to walk out of the door, John hadn't given up on him. He'd called Sam back and told him it was okay. Sam could live _that _life, he could have his dreams, as long as he didn't leave them behind completely. Sam had agreed at once. He'd promised to come back to the hunt as often as he could, and he had. Every summer was dedicated to the cause. He didn't leave them behind.

But the dream had felt so real.

_Snap out of it. You're not that man. You're not like that. Do you really think you'd make that good a hunter? Seems a little arrogant to me. Remember how they'd look at you when you walked in? Respect and even a little fear?_ _You, Sam Winchester, incite fear in no one but yourself. You're afraid of a dream man. It's _not_ real!_

"You falling asleep on me?" Dean asked. "I know I interrupted your beauty sleep, but I need you awake for this one, Sammy."

_Sammy. Dream Dean didn't call him Sammy anymore._

"I'm awake. Just thinking?"

"About?"

"Nothing important," Sam lied. He didn't want to tell Dean about the dream. He would either laugh or be worried about the state of Sam's mind. What kind of person dreamed about their father dying like _that_?

"Make yourself useful. Change the cassette. None of your sappy crap either. I'm in the mood for some Zeppelin."

"Yeah, because I have such a selection of sappy crap cassettes in my pockets," Sam said dryly. "Unlike you, I have moved into the twenty first century, Dean. There are these awesome things called CDs now."

"That would involve me having a CD player," Dean said. "There's no way I'm violating my baby like that."

_Dream Dean's excitement as Sam gave up the driver's seat for him. "It's just a car, Dean."_

_Not real. _

* * *

The problem was that the dream seemed more and more real as the day wore on. The hunt was so close, _so close, _to what had happened before, that when Sam drove the car into the abandoned house, forcing Constance Welch to face her poor, dead children, he felt something flip in his mind. He felt the thrill of the hunt coming to a close, the thrill of saving a life. He had never felt that before in this life. Substitute John for Dean and it was the same.

_Not the same. Don't believe it. This is real. _

But it didn't feel real. It felt wrong. It was as if _that _Sam was seeping into him, replacing him. The Sam who was a true hunter—had been since he was little more than a child—was taking over.

Sam mourned it.

He _wanted _this to be real. He wanted his father alive and his brother to have never left him. He didn't want memories of those wasted years between them. He didn't want the dream.

* * *

"I'll tell you one thing," Dean said. "If you screwed up my car, I'll kill you."

But it wasn't his car. It was Sam's now. John had left it and Sam had taken it over, even though the very memory of his father was imbedded in every detail of it.

_Don't believe it. _

But he did believe it. He couldn't convince himself of anything else. This was the dream.

Ignoring Dean's warning, he flipped open his phone and dialed the number from memory. The call rang through and John's voice, his achingly familiar voice, came through on voicemail. _"This is John Winchester. Leave your name and number and I'll get back to you."_

Dean frowned. "Who you calling?"

Sam shook his head. "Dad, it's me. I need to talk to you. Call me back. Please."

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked. _Not Sammy. Not Sammy. That name was lost when Dean was. _"You look like you're about to pass out. Did that bitch hurt you?"

"No. I'm okay."

"Once more with feeling."

"I am," Sam said. "I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"Everything."

"Okay," Dean said slowly. "Gotta say, you've got me kinda worried. Shall we go for a drink, something to help your vapors?"

"Yeah. That'd be good. Is the car okay?"

"She's fine. Just a light out. You got off lucky. I'd have hated to have to pound your ass for emotional trauma."

They got into the car and Sam settled against the leather seat. Dean started the engine and they backed slowly out of the ruined house. Dean turned them and they set out on the road.

"I don't feel like a bar tonight," Sam said. "Let's just hit a liquor store and park somewhere."

Dean glanced at the starry sky through the windshield and nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

Dean went into the store while Sam sat in the car. He knew he didn't have long left in this place. He would have to go back soon to the real world—_Not the real world—_and face that, but he wanted a little longer. There was someone he needed to see. He would come. He always came through when Sam needed it most. Sam had been dying and he'd delivered. He'd saved him.

Sam understood that now.

He thought if he just threw himself into this—_real!_—false reality, he could have a good life with his father and brother. He couldn't though. He'd left a real—_false!—_world behind, and his brother needed him in that world, just like John had needed Sam to live.

He almost cried.

He would do the same. This world was everything he wanted, but he was giving it up for his brother. He was leaving the good behind and going back to what was hard and painful. He was doing it for Dean. John had done more for him. The choice must have been a hundred times harder, but how could he have done anything else?

Family was everything.

It always had been.

"Here," Dean said, holding out the bottle of Jack for him. Sam took a swig from the bottle and handed it back. "You feeling better?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "It's getting clearer."

Dean watched him with a furrowed brow. "Not freaking me out any less, you know?"

"Sorry," Sam said sincerely. "It'll be better soon. It's almost over."

"What's almost over?"

"The dream."

"Sammy, I don't know if you dropped the brown acid or what, but this is real. Not a dream. Maybe we should call Dad again."

"No need," Sam said. "He'll come." He always came when Sam needed him. Sam lay back on the hood of the Impala and stared up at the starry night. The same sky, the same constellations, he saw in the real world.

_Not real!_ The voice was more desperate now, it knew what was coming, and Sam finally recognized it. It was John. How could it be anyone else?

"Someone's coming," Dean said.

"I know." Sam could hear it too, legs parting the long, damp grass around them. He sat up and watched his father's approach, smiling slightly while fighting back the tears.

"Dad?" Dean asked.

"Hey, boys," John said. He locked eyes with Sam. "You okay, son?"

Sam nodded. "I'm fine, Dad. I understand."

"Yeah…" Dean said slowly. "Sammy's having a little breakdown, I think."

Sam locked eyes with his father. "I'm not, am I?"

John shook his head, looking mournful. "No, son. You're not."

Sam swallowed hard. "I thought so."

Not John. It wasn't John. It was the truth behind the lie.

"You're strong," The Not-John said. "Stronger than anyone I've known before."

"I was trained by the best."

Dean slid off the hood of the car and moved to stand beside John. "How did you know?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "It was too good to be true."

John nodded. He looked a little weary, as if the strain of Sam's realization was too much for him. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"Almost. There's something I need to say first." He wasn't speaking to his real father, he knew that, but he needed to say it regardless. "I'm sorry for what happened. I'm sorry for what you had to do to save me." He sniffed, the tears starting to fall now. "But I'm grateful. For a long time I thought I was ready to go, but I'm not. I want to live. I want to fight. I want my brother."

Not-John smiled. "I see. I understand now." He hesitated. "You don't have to go. I can make you forget. You can have them both. Your father and brother. I can make it last a lifetime."

"I wish I could." He wished that so much. "But I can't leave him behind."

"Okay," Not-John said. "You know what you have to do."

Sam bent and pulled the switchblade from his pocket. He looked from his father to his brother. "Thank you," he said, then addressed Not-Dean. "I'll see you."

He pressed the tip of the knife to his chest, took a breath, and thrust it into his heart.

* * *

"So, what happened?" Dean asked harshly. He was still feeling a little shaky after finding Sam strung from the ceiling like a monster's buffet in that rundown warehouse. He kept thinking of what would have happened if he hadn't realized Sam was gone. It was pure chance that Sam had told him that there was a hunt for a djinn close by that he was going to take before dropping by Dean's. When he hadn't come, Dean had known, _known, _something was wrong. He'd slapped together the few clues he had, gotten some more information from Bobby, and gone searching for the Impala in the industrial area of town. He'd found it, then Sam, but he'd almost been too late.

Dean shuddered.

Sam took a gulp of the whiskey Dean had poured him and fell back against the couch cushions. It wasn't relaxation that had him behaving like this, as if he was at home in Dean's home, but exhaustion. He was still pale and clammy, and though Dean had suggested something to help his body deal with the blood that thing had been sucking out of him, Sam had requested whiskey.

"It was the djinn," Sam said slowly, swiping a hand through his hair. "It got the jump on me. I don't know how it happened. I had the knife and the blood. I was ready for it. But then…" He shook his head.

"That's not what I meant," Dean said, voice softening slightly. "Bobby told me what those things did. What did it make you see?"

Sam looked at him, and Dean wished he hadn't. Sam looked almost haunted. As if the terrors of what he had seen were still in his vision.

"I saw dad," he said quietly.

Oh. Not terrors then. Pain.

Sam sucked in a breath. "It was this whole other life. I was… And you were… It doesn't matter. It's gone now."

"I don't understand how it's gone, though. Bobby said to end the dream you have to kill the djinn, but you were awake and it was still alive when I found you."

The djinn had been alive and it had been chance, pure chance, that Dean had been able to take it down. If Sam hadn't shouted a warning when it was right behind him, Dean would have been the next one strung up.

Sam smiled wryly. "I clicked my heels together three times."

"Very funny," Dean said. "Seriously. How did you do it?"

"Partly because I wanted it bad enough, and partly because the djinn let me. It knew it couldn't hold me in the dream, so it let me free. It would have killed me and drained me there and then if you hadn't come along. Thank you, Dean."

Dean grinned. "Anytime you need your ass saved from the fire, let me know. I'll have your back."

Sam smiled. "Seriously. Thank you."

"Why did you want it though?" Dean asked. "Seeing Dad again, that had to be a gift."

"It was, everything about it was a gift, but it wasn't real. Things were good for me in that life. I could have been happy. But it would have come at a price, and that price was just too damn high. Other people would have suffered for my happiness."

Dean whistled between his teeth. "Don't know if I'd have had the strength to do what you did. I think if it was good enough, I'd have stayed."

Sam eyed him for a moment and then shook his head. "No, you wouldn't. You and I both know there are some things more important than our own happiness."

"But dad…"

"He understood," Sam said enigmatically and then drained his glass of whiskey. "Another?"

Sensing the topic was closed, Dean refilled the glass and handed it back. He knew there was so much Sam wasn't telling him about what had happened, but he thought maybe it was better that way. Maybe he didn't want to know.

* * *

**So… What did you think? At one point the plan was to do WIAWNSB with Dean as in the show. He was going to see himself in the hunting life. It didn't excite me, as we already know what kind of hunter Dean would make, but the idea of Sam of this story having a chance at 'normal' appealed to me greatly, so I went with that. I also knew Sam needed to see John again, to have a chance to thank him. It was one of my favorite chapters of the story, and I really hope you enjoyed it, too. **

**We're coming to the final few chapters now, so you might want to buckle in and prepare for the drama. **

**Until next time…**

**Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	21. Chapter 20

**Huge thank you hugs to Jenjoremy for the awesome beta job and to my partners in fic crime, SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for all their help.**

**Everyone buckled in and ready? Good. Here we go...**

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty_**

Dean was on his first cup of coffee, eyes still a little bleary and hair damp from the shower, when his phone rang. He set down his cup and pulled it out of his pocket. The caller ID said _Roadhouse_ and he frowned slightly. Sam usually called from his cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Dean, it's Ellen."

It was her tone that tipped him off. He knew deep in his gut that this wasn't a phone call that he wanted to get. He knew who if not what it was about. His drowsiness deserted him.

"Is he okay?"

"He's not with you?" she asked in return.

"I haven't seen him for days. What's happened?"

Ellen sucked in a noisy breath. "I don't know. Ash spoke to him last night. He was on his way here, but he never turned up."

"He's in trouble," Dean stated.

"I think he is," she admitted. "Whatever Ash found, it's big. He won't even tell me about it. Sam wouldn't let himself get diverted from this, Dean."

Dean drew a breath, held it for a pause, and then released it, forcing away his fear with it—just as John Winchester had taught him. "Okay. Where was he when you last spoke to him?"

"Some burger shack out your way."

Sunnyside Diner, Dean was sure of it. He and Sam had been there a couple times together since Dean had decided they made the best bacon-cheeseburgers in the state. He'd only just rekindled his love affair with them. Sonny wasn't big on take-out food.

"Okay," he said, forcing confidence into his tone. "I know where he was. I'll go by there."

Though what he hoped to find there, he didn't know. It wasn't like Sam would have left a note to say where he was going next. It was the only clue he had though, so he would make the trip.

"Okay," Ellen said. "We'll do what we can from here. Ash is trying to track his GPS, and I've got Jo calling around. We'll find him, Dean."

Her words were comforting, but her tone was not. She was just as worried as Dean was. Sam was a hunter. He could take care of himself. He could have just decided to crash for the night in his car. Or something could be terribly wrong.

* * *

Sam woke lying on the collapsed remains of an old plank boardwalk. He was on his feet before he was all the way conscious again. His eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. For a split second, horror filled him, as he thought he recognized where he was, and then reason caught up with him. This wasn't Miners Delight. This place was bigger, there were more buildings, but it was just as abandoned as that ghost town had been. No one had lived here for a long time. Sam was willing to bet no one had even walked on these streets in a long time.

It was so strange and disconnected that he would have liked to believe it was a dream, but the ache in his back from where he had lain—for how long?—and the knot on the back of his head, throbbing painfully, assured him he was wide awake.

The last thing he remembered was stopping at a burger shack on his way to Dean's. He'd been planning to surprise his brother with an unexpected visit and his favorite burger when Ash had called. He'd been twitchy and weird, talking about finding something big. _"You have to see if for yourself, Sam."_ Dean's food forgotten, Sam had turned away from the counter and then… Nothing. Someone had obviously clocked him.

His hand reached to the back of his pants, feeling for his gun, but there was nothing there. He bent and checked his boot but his silver knife was missing, too. Whoever had brought him here for whatever reason had cleared him of weapons in the process. He had his cell phone though; he could feel the weight in his pocket. He pulled it out but before he could even check the screen, he heard the lost reception beeping. Shaking his head, he stowed it back in his pocket and looked around again. There was something about the place, something familiar outside of the Miners Delight connotations. His eyes fell on the large water tower and he saw the faded remains of a name on it. He squinted and was just about to make them out.

_"__Cold Oak, Sammy," _John said from his memories, pointing at a spot on the map. _"Town so haunted it drove everyone out. One day you and me will go there and clean the place up. What do you think? It's our Grand Canyon."_

Sam sighed. "Looks like I made it after all, Dad."

* * *

Dean felt a deep sense of foreboding as he pulled into the Sunshine Diner parking lot. It was early, the place should just be opening up and the parking lot practically empty, but there were about a dozen cars in the lot—the Impala among them.

Dean climbed off the bike and walked to the door with a heavy heart. He didn't know what he was going to find inside, but every atom of him screamed with tension.

The door wasn't locked. It swung open at his touch and a horrific sight met his eyes. Blood, so much blood, on tables and the floor and counter. And the bodies, throats slit into broad smiles and eyes wide, staring, skin pale. He knew if he could bring himself to touch one of them, he'd find him or her cold and stiff.

His eyes roved the room, both looking for and fearing to find too-long, shaggy hair and a tall form crumpled over one of the tables or on the floor, and yet he knew without knowing how that Sam was not going to be found, that he wasn't there.

He searched behind the counter and the kitchen anyway. There were more bodies but none of them were Sam, but there was a sign of him. The Impala keys, with their ancient Rainbow Motors key fob, were on the table. He snatched them up and made his way to a back room, a combination break room and storeroom. There was a woman in a pink uniform folded over the table, dead, a half cup of coffee in front of her. Poor woman had just been taking a break when this, whatever this was, happened.

There was a rear door, and Dean made for it. It was locked and Dean was on the point of forcing it to get a look out back, when he spotted the yellow powder on the windowsill: sulfur.

* * *

Sam armed himself with a plank of wood. He had no idea who or what he might need to defend himself from, but whoever or whatever had brought him here hadn't done it because they thought he would enjoy the scenery.

He was walking along the street, searching for he didn't know what, when he heard a creaking sound coming from the alley ahead of him. He darted forward to stand out of sight and gripped the plank a little tighter, waiting.

A man stepped around the side of the building, and Sam struck, redirecting his swing at the very last second to avoid turning Andy Gallagher's brain to jelly. The wood thumped against the wall of one of the abandoned buildings and Andy ducked.

"What the… Sam?"

Sam released the plank and it clattered to the ground. He knew who had brought him here now, he just didn't know why.

* * *

Ellen answered the phone on the first ring. "Dean?"

"Demons," he said. "It was demons."

"They've got him?"

"Must have. I found a bunch of people with their throats cut and a load of sulfur. No Sam."

Ellen cursed weakly. "Okay. Uh…"

"What do we do?" Dean asked. She had to know because he didn't.

He heard her draw a deep breath and when she spoke, her voice was firm. "You need to come here. We've got the traps laid down, so we're safe. If it's demons, we can find him. They leave signs wherever they are. I'll get Ash on it."

Dean hesitated.

"What's wrong?" she asked when the silence grew too long.

"How did they do it?" Dean asked. "Everyone tells me Sam's a great hunter. I've seen it for myself. So how did they get the jump on him? How did they get him out of there? There were no signs of a struggle, and Sam wouldn't have gone quietly. It had to have been something with some serious mojo to get him."

"It wasn't just demons then," Ellen said with a sigh, "It was _demon, _The Demon."

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking. And I don't think a couple of traps under the doors is going to stop that bastard. Sam's told me about it. It has serious power. We need more protection than devil's traps. We need Bobby's. Sam said it was the best protected place he knew."

"I know where he is," Ellen said. "Okay. I'll get Ash and Jo and meet you there. Be careful, Dean. You've been targeted twice for Sam now. Don't let there be a third time."

"I won't," Dean said stiffly. "Not this time." He didn't think he would be the target anyway. This time it seemed all the trouble had befallen Sam.

_Where is he?_

* * *

If Ellen, Dean or Jo had seen Sam in that abandoned town, they would have despaired. He had shut down again. All of the hard won lightness in him was gone. He was the person who had burned his father again. One part of him rebelled at the regression, but another part gloried in it. He needed to be like this. It was better, easier. He forced all thoughts of the people he cared about from his mind—it was the only way he would be able to get back to them—and became just a hunter.

It wasn't a shock for Andy—or Ava, when they found her— as they'd met him before, but when two other people appeared and introduced themselves as Jake and Lily, they were taken off guard by it—the contrast between him and Ava and Andy was great. That was good. They would have a better chance of getting through this alive if they trusted that he knew what he was doing.

The others were in conversation about how they'd come to be here. Sam let them get their histrionics out of the way and then he spoke up. "We're here because a demon wants us here. He has plans for us, that much I know. What these plans are, I have no idea. But we've got to stick together to get through this." How tempting it was to let them all get through it on their own. He could start for those trees now and get out of here—_back to Dean—_soon enough. He couldn't though. They were civilians, even the solider, and they needed help. _"We help people because they can't help themselves, Sam. That's our job."_

"A demon?" Andy asked dubiously. "That sounds kinda wackadoo."

"Says the man who can mind fuck people into doing what he wants," Sam said dryly. "Look, I don't care if you believe me, just as long as you trust me. I will get you out of this alive, but I need your help."

"And what makes you the expert?" Jake asked, staring at Sam with narrowed eyes.

Sam returned the stare, daring him to doubt him. "Five years of chasing this demon and every other nightmare you can imagine."

"You're crazy," Jake said.

"Maybe. Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Jake shook his head. "I've heard enough. I'm better off on my own." He turned to the others. "FYI, so are you."

He walked away. Sam watched him go, annoyed as all hell but ranking the safety of the other three higher than Jake's alone. If Jake died, it would convince the others he was serious. Sometimes you lost one for the good of the many.

* * *

The ride to Sioux Falls did nothing to ease Dean's fear. He was wound tightly by the time he pulled the Impala to a stop and got out.

They'd heard him coming. Ellen was waiting on the porch for him, and when he reached her, she threw her arms around him. Tension came off her in waves. "You okay?" she asked, holding him by the shoulders and looking into his eyes.

"Not remotely," Dean replied.

She nodded. "Me neither."

He followed her into the house. Jo was sitting on the couch, her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes faraway, as if she was seeing something outside of the room they occupied. Ash had set his laptop up at the table and Bobby was looking over his shoulder.

He turned as Dean came in, as Dean saw his expression was solemn. He started to speak, "Try not to—" but Dean cut him off. "If you tell me not to worry, I'm going to lose my mind. Sam's good, I know that, but that bastard is better. I have no idea what's happening to him right now, what it's doing to him. Just fill me in on what you have."

Ash spun in his seat. "Okay. Here's the thing. There's nothing. No demon signs. No GPS from Sam's phone. No clue as to where he is."

"That can't be right," Dean breathed. "There has to be _something!"_

"There isn't." Ash ran a hand through his hair. "There is nothing out there that can track as good as this program. John and Sam helped me set it up. It's the best there is, and it's finding nothing, which means there is nothing to find."

Dean cursed. "Then what the hell do we do?"

Ellen laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned to her in time to see a tear trickle down her cheek. "We have to wait, honey. We have to hope Sam can make it out of whatever's happening to him on his own."

* * *

Thanks to the Acheri demon, Sam had three of them on board with what they had believed was pure crazy at first. Lily was gone though, found hanging from the water tower. Sam regretted her death, it felt like a failure, but he couldn't let himself think of it for long. There were three others still alive who needed his protection.

They had gathered salt, an iron poker, and an old rusted knife that could have been there since the time of residents. It was a weapon though, and Sam had stuffed it into his boot.

"We need help," Sam breathed, thinking of all the hunters he knew. If he could just get a few of them here, they would have a better chance of making it out alive. Lily had obviously been trying to leave when she died, and Sam wanted out of this place more than anything.

"Help from who?" Ava asked tearfully. "Who can help us now?"

Sam shook his head. "Any one of my… friends." The word felt awkward on his tongue. They weren't friends; they were barely acquaintances. "But I need a way to contact them."

Andy snapped his fingers. "I think I can do something about that. I've never tried it long distance before, though, and I might not be able to reach them, but…" He trailed off looking thoughtful.

"Keep talking, Andy," Sam snapped.

"Do you have anything that belonged to one of your friends?" Andy asked. "Something they touched?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't usually carry mementoes of them around." But then he realized that he did have something. Something of Dean's. He had kept that business card on him ever since Dean had given it to him. It had become a talisman in a way, a sign that he was not always alone.

"What can you do Andy?" he asked.

"I can send them a vision. If we can find the right person, we can clue him in to where we are at least. Maybe that would help."

Sam was torn. He needed help, he knew that, but if he drew _Dean_ there… It was too big a risk, wasn't it? Would Dean be smart enough to get help from someone else, someone who would be an asset? Ellen would know what to do, Bobby, too. If Dean would just go to them, tell them what he saw, then they could get backup here by nightfall.

He reluctantly pulled the card from his pocket and handed it to Andy. "Do what you have to do."

Andy took the card. "Who's is this? Who are we dialing up?"

"It's Dean's," he said. "It's my brother's."

* * *

Dean was pacing the room, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He needed to _do _something, to help, but he couldn't even keep up with Ash and Bobby's conversation about signs and possibilities for Sam's location. It didn't sound like they knew anything anyway. They were all at a loss.

He was just turning on his heel to make another pass of the room when a crippling pain seared though his head. He felt like he'd just taken an axe to the skull. He bowed over, his hands coming to press against his temples, and groaned.

"Dean?" Ellen's voice sounded far away, as if he was hearing it underwater. He saw a flash of something across his vision and then, as fast as it had come, it ended.

"What the hell was that?" Bobby asked.

"I don't know," Dean said weakly. "It was like a—" The pain came again, worse than before, and this time the flash of image lasted long enough for him to make it out. Sam. He was alive. Despite the pain, Dean felt exquisite relief. He tried to focus on what he was seeing. It looked like an old world town. There was a derelict looking building to the left—its windows crusted with dirt. Sam was standing in front of what looked like an old fashioned well. No, a bell. Dean searched for any other marker, any other clue, but the vision was fading then gone, as was the pain.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to find that he was on his knees. Someone had placed a hand on his back and he could feel the gaze of the others holding him in place.

"I saw him," he breathed. "I saw Sam."

"Where?" Ellen asked.

Dean shook his head and got clumsily to his feet. "I'm not sure. It looked old and empty. I just saw him. There was a bell… It had something on it."

"A tree?" Bobby asked intensely. "An oak tree?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

Bobby looked worried. "I know where he is, and it ain't anywhere good."

* * *

"I've been here a long time. And not alone, either," Ava said happily. "People just keep showing up. Children, like us. Batches of three or four at a time."

"And you killed them," Sam stated.

"Every one of them. I'm the undefeated heavyweight champ."

Sam shook his head, glancing at Andy's body lying on the floor between them. He knew from his dream that Yellow-Eyes had brought them here to fight it out, but he'd never have put his money on Ava being the one who survived. She was a masterful actress.

"I had no choice," she went on. "It was me or them. After a while, it was easy. It was even kind of fun. I just stopped fighting it."

"Fighting what?"

"Who we are, Sam. If you'd just open yourself up, you have no idea what you can do. The learning curve is so fast, it's crazy, the switches that just flip in your brain." She laughed. "I can't believe I started out just having dreams. Do you know what I can do now?"

Sam glared at her. "You can control demons."

She grinned. "Ah, you are quick on the draw. Yeah, I'm sorry, Sam. But, it's over."

The smoke swirled at the window. Sam sprang forward, determined to end her, but Jake was faster. He seemed to come out of nowhere. He gripped her head and, with a satisfying crack, he snapped her neck. He released her and her body fell to the floor with a thud.

"Thanks," Sam said awkwardly.

"Welcome," he replied then his expression became grave. Sam knew, as clearly as if he could hear Jake's thoughts, what was going to happen next.

"It came to you, too, didn't it?" he asked. "The Demon?"

Jake nodded. "I'm sorry. It's you or me. I have no choice."

"You're letting that thing win," Sam said bitterly. "You have no idea what it's done to me, to my family. Walk away with me. Let's go after it together. I can teach you how to fight it."

"I don't need lessons," Jake said scathingly. "I know plenty already." He stepped forward, hand raised and fisted, and Sam tried to dodge it—the man had super strength and could easily crush him—but Jake countered. He struck Sam in the chest, knocking the breath out of him and cracking ribs. Sam was knocked back against the wall of the shack, and it collapsed under his weight. He went sprawling back onto the porch.

"I'm sorry," Jake said again, coming at him.

Sam leapt to his feet, snatching the knife from his boot as he did. He swept it through the air, aiming for Jake's chest, but he wasn't a soldier for nothing. His reflexes were good, better than good. He dodged the swipe and managed to catch Sam's wrist on the way past. He twisted it behind Sam's back in a half-nelson. Sam dropped the knife and fell back against Jake's chest for a moment. The contact must have been too much for Jake on the point of murder because he shoved Sam away.

Sam groaned with pain and spun on his heel to face Jake. "Don't do this," he said, and though he wasn't begging, Jake looked at him sympathetically.

"I don't want to." He was sincere, Sam could tell, but it wouldn't stop him from doing what he thought he needed to do. He would kill Sam, though the murder would possibly haunt him for years to come, because he had no choice.

Sam had no choice either, but he also didn't have a weapon. He was helpless in the face of Jake's desperation and need for survival. He had no choice. As his father's voice shouted within his mind—"_Run, son. Run so you can fight another day"—_he spun on his heel and sprinted away.

It was raining now, and he slipped on the mud but kept his feet. He could hear Jake behind him, his breaths panting. He wasn't going to make it. He was going to die here. The thought pushed him on faster.

Then out of nowhere, out of nothing, there was something in the road. Black smoke. Jake skidded to a stop behind him, and Sam half turned, sure that was the end, but then Jake stepped back and the smoke came at Sam.

* * *

It was raining and Dean was running as fast as he could, slipping slightly on the mud. Ellen and Bobby were following, but he was faster. He had a desperate need to get to Sam. Whatever was happening to him, he needed Dean. Dean knew it in his gut, something terrible was happening.

He was shouting Sam's name, wanting him to know he was coming. He wanted him to know his big brother was coming and he would save him or be damned himself.

He turned a corner and his heart seemed to leap in his throat. Sam!

He was standing with his back to Dean, talking to another man in army fatigues. As Dean shouted his brother's name, in relief and greeting, the man turned and sprinted away.

Sam turned slowly, making the movement seem to last forever.

"Sam?" Dean asked tentatively. Why was he moving so slowly? Was he hurt?

Then he was facing Dean and his eyes opened, his sickening, yellow eyes. There was a moment in which they just stared at each other, as Dean's mind reeled at what he was seeing, and then Sam was gone. He vanished without a sound, leaving Dean alone.

His knees buckled and he sank to the muddy ground, a cry building in his chest, bubbling up his throat and escaping his mouth in a yell. "Sam!"

* * *

**So… That happened. This part of the story was supposed to be pretty much canon events. After much angsting and hand wringing that Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 talked me through, I decided to change things up a little. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	22. Chapter 21

**Thank you Jenjoremy for the beta magic and SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for everything you do.**

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty-One**_

Ellen's heart sank as she caught sight of Dean ahead of her. He was kneeling on the rain pelted ground with his back to her.

"Oh no," she moaned.

She knew who had brought Dean to his knees, but she didn't know what. Her eyes roved the road, searching for a sign of Sam, but he wasn't there.

She skidded to a stop at Dean's side and asked in a harsher voice than she intended. "Where is he?"

"Gone."

"Gone where?"

Dean shrugged.

She dropped to her knees in front of him and shook his shoulders. "Talk to me! Where is Sam?"

"I don't know," Dean said in a moan. "Yellow-Eyes."

Her stomach churned with fear and nausea. "Yellow-Eyes has him?"

"He _is_ Yellow-Eyes," Dean said. "Yellow-Eyes is him."

"Boy, you aren't making a damn bit of sense," Bobby panted, coming to a stop beside them. "Start from the beginning."

Dean shook his head desolately and Ellen shook him again. "Snap out of it!" she barked. "Tell us what happened to Sam!" He voice was harsh but so was her fear. Sam was _her_ boy. She needed to help him, and the only one that knew what was happening wasn't talking sense.

"Sam was here," Dean said in a dead tone. "But it wasn't him. It was Yellow-Eyes."

"Yellow-Eyes is possessing him?" Bobby asked.

Dean nodded. "He's got Sam. He's taken him."

Ellen held on to Dean now for support as the horrifying prospect reached her. Sam was possessed by that… _thing._ It was more than she could bear. It was more than _Sam_ could bear. It would be his worst nightmare.

"Which way did they go?" Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged again. "They didn't. One minute they were here, the next they were gone. I don't know where it's taken him." He raised devastated eyes to Ellen's face. "I don't know where he is."

Ellen cupped his cheek in her hand. "We'll find him, Dean. It'll be okay."

She hoped she wasn't lying. She prayed she wasn't. But if that yellow-eyed bastard was in Sam, they were close to useless. If Sam and John, the best hunters there were, hadn't managed to take him out in him in all their years searching, what chance did they have?

Bobby cleared his throat and spoke gruffly but not unkindly. "We've got to get out of here."

"And go where?" Dean asked miserably.

"Get back to my place. We need to find them, and Ash is our best hope."

Ellen nodded. "Come on, Dean. This is our best chance at helping Sam. Up you get."

Dean got clumsily to his feet and let her lead him back along the street to where they'd left the car. He was like a child, like Sam had once been, relying on her for guidance in something he couldn't make sense of.

It just about broke her heart.

* * *

Dean's shock was slowly replaced by anger on the drive back to Bobby's. Sam was gone, and that hurt him more than anything, but the fact he had been taken, stolen away, by that _thing_ made him furious. That it could take something else from Dean was just… wrong. It had killed his mother, one of its pets had been the reason his father had given up his life for Sam, and now it had taken his brother away. Dean would end it or die trying, just like Sam would have.

He was first out of the car as Bobby pulled them to a stop. He strode up the steps and across the porch, throwing the door open and marching into the room.

Ash was sitting on the couch beside Jo, his nervous chatter filling the room. "Sam's tough, you know. He can take care of himself. He'll be pissed that we even doubted him. He'll probably—"

He cut off as he caught sight of Dean striding towards him.

"What…" Jo started then she gasped as Dean grabbed Ash by the collar and lifted him bodily.

"Where is he?" Dean growled.

"Where's who?" Ash asked, eyes wild.

"Sam! Yellow-Eyes! Where are they?"

Ash shook his head jerkily. "Man, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dean released him and he landed heavily on the couch again.

"The Demon has possessed Sam," Ellen said softly, her eyes locked on her daughter's tearful face.

"Are you sure?" Jo asked.

"Am I sure?" Dean laughed harshly. "Am I sure I saw my brother's eyes turn yellow and then watched him disappear? Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"Dean!" Bobby said harshly. "We're all worried here. Don't take it out on the people that are trying to help!"

"You don't understand," Dean said. "You all care, I get that, but he's _my_ brother. He's my brother and I was supposed to take care of him. That bastard has him now and I have no idea where he is? How do I even start when I can't find him?"

Ellen laid a hand on Dean's shoulder and spoke calmly to Ash. "You said you found something big. What was it?"

Casting Dean a wary glance, Ash got to his feet and walked over to the table that was strewn with papers. "There are no demon signs anywhere but here," he said, tapping a finger over the center of Wyoming. "And I found this. I was looking into the origins of the colt, and it got me thinking about Samuel Colt. I looked into his history a little, and found out he did a lot more than make guns."

"We don't need to _see_ the math, Ash," Bobby said gruffly. "Just tell us what you know."

"I'm getting to it," Ash said, sounding annoyed. "Colt built frontier churches; he was a kind of missionary of the time, apparently. He built five. Here, here, here, here, and here." He drew a cross on five points of the map.

Bobby frowned. "That's pretty coincidental positioning."

"No coincidence about it," Ash said in a satisfied tone. "There's a railroad connecting each of the churches."

Bobby leaned forward and traced a line between each of the crosses. Dean saw what he was trying to show them at once. It was a pentagram.

Ash took a pen and drew in the connections. "A hundred square mile pentagram. It's a big ass devil's trap."

"He wanted to keep something out," Ellen said quietly. "But what? What could have been important enough to go to all that trouble to protect?"

Ash shrugged. "That's where I'm out of ideas. At the center is an old cowboy cemetery, but I have no idea why he would to protect it. He wanted the demons kept out from whatever is there."

"Maybe not," Dean said, tracing a finger over the lines of the pentagram. "What if he wanted to keep something in?"

"Like what?" Jo asked. "Yellow-Eyes is the biggest badass there is, and he's not in there. What else could have been important enough to go to all that trouble to keep in?"

Bobby tugged off his cap and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. Something big and bad."

"What's worse than Yellow-Eyes?" Dean asked.

"Nothing I've ever heard of," Ash said. "That dude is the most powerful demon I've ever heard of. It's got mojo like I've never seen. Where he goes, storms converge and crops fail on an epic scale."

"Where is he now then?" Dean asked impatiently. "If he's giving off signs like that, you've got to be able to find him and Sam."

"I've been looking," Ash said defensively, "but all the signs are converging on Wyoming. Yellow-Eyes could be among them, or it could be every other demon topside hanging there. I just don't know."

Bobby nodded. "Okay. We've got two problems as I see it. Whatever's in that cemetery and Yellow-Eyes."

"The cemetery doesn't matter," Dean said quickly. "Sam matters." Ellen started to speak but Dean spoke over her. "Don't you dare tell me what Sam would want. He's been possessed by that son of a bitch. He comes first."

"I agree," she said. "But I'm sure they're linked. If we can work out what's going on in one, we'll find the other. We go to Wyoming, see what's what in that cemetery, and wait. If I'm right, Yellow-Eyes is going to come sooner or later, and _then_ we can help Sam."

Dean stared into her eyes, searching for a hint of a lie. There was none. He trusted her. She would do her damndest to help Sam because she loved him, too.

"Don't kill me for asking," Ash said awkwardly. "But say you do find Yellow-Eyes, how the hell are you going to get him out of Sam. It's not like he's going to stand still and let you exorcise him."

"We'll find a way," Dean said confidently. "We have to. It's my brother."

* * *

Sam fought and clawed to be free.

He was trapped inside himself, unable to control his own damn body. The Demon was speaking with his mouth, with his voice, and Sam screamed inside his own head.

Jake was standing opposite him, the gun pointed at the Demon's—_Sam's—_head, and Sam screamed at him to shoot. Take out the demon and Sam in the process and end it once and for all. Sam had no fear of death. He would gladly go if it meant the end of the demon, too. In that moment, trapped inside himself, he would go for less. He was in hell.

The Demon clapped Sam's hands to his chest. "Oh, my. I'm shocked at this unforeseen turn of events. Go ahead, Jake. Squeeze that trigger. Be all you can be. This'll all be over. Your life can go back to normal. Of course, the Army won't take you back 'cause you're AWOL. But I'm sure you could get your old job at the factory back. But then, on the other hand, the rest of your life, and your family's, could be money and honey, health and wealth, every day is ice-cream sundae. And all you got to do is this one little thing."

"No!" Sam shouted, heard by only the Demon, who laughed. "Don't listen. Shoot, Jake. Shoot us now. It's the only way to be free."

"_Really, Sammy," _The Demon whispered to him. _"There is no freedom for you now or him. He will do this and die, and you will be mine…. We're going to have so much fun together."_

"Why?" Sam asked against his will. "Why do you want me?"

"_Because you're my favorite. You have no idea the potential you have. I wanted you to win, to be the best _you_ could be, but you ran. This is my compromise. I will have you. Don't worry, though, it's not forever. There's great work for you, Sam. Great things to be done."_

"I will do nothing for you," Sam snarled.

"_Oh, but you will."_

"If I do this," Jake said. "If I open this door, will you let me go?"

"I'll do better than that," The Demon said. "I'll make you a star."

Jake turned away from them and began to walk.

"_Fifty miles thataway. Think he'll make it, Sammy?"_

Sam didn't answer.

* * *

Dean was terrified. He wasn't afraid of what would happen to him or even the world if they failed, he was worried about Sam. He had a sick, sinking feeling in his gut that he wouldn't be able to save him. He was scared Sam would be trapped inside that demon forever, and Dean would never talk to him again.

He had so many things to say. He'd been holding it in for the longest time, giving Sam space and time to think, for fear of driving him away, but now he wished he had pushed. He had told Sam he forgave him for what he did to John, when it was the furthest thing from the truth. He didn't forgive him because there was nothing to forgive. It wasn't Sam's fault. It wasn't John's. It was a sacrifice borne out of love and that needed no forgiveness.

They'd had a long ride over to Wyoming. Dean had plenty of time to think while Ellen and Bobby rode in Bobby's Chevelle. Dean wasn't remotely ready for this confrontation—he'd only exorcised two lesser demons in his life—but he had no choice. Fate had chosen the time and place, and he had to succeed. There was no alternative if he wanted to live in the world when it was over.

They had been examining the crypt when Bobby had spotted someone on the horizon. He'd hidden behind a tombstone, Ellen and Bobby either side of him crouched behind their own, and waited. They would wait there forever if that was what it took.

He had the gun in his hand, ready for he didn't know what. Bobby had ventured the idea that the demon would have human backup to break the trap, but what kind of human would or could do that. An iron railroad track wasn't going to break easy. Though, as Bobby had said, demons were nothing if not inventive.

Suddenly, Dean heard the sounds of the person's approach. They were taking no care to be quiet, their breaths came heavy and their footsteps plodding.

Dean glanced to the side and saw Bobby shake his head. It wasn't the moment to strike. Despite what he told himself about it being in the blood, that he was still a hunter underneath it all and always would be, Dean knew better. He wasn't a hunter. He was a civilian, and if the real hunter there said to wait, it was what Dean would do.

"I know you're here," an unfamiliar voice said. "I can feel you."

Dean exchanged a shocked glance with Bobby who eased himself to his feet, as if wary of scaring whoever the voice belonged to.

Dean copied his movement and saw a tall man staring back at him.

"Let me guess, you're Dean," the man said. "Sam mentioned you."

Dean raised his gun. "And you're the one that ran away."

"Do you blame me? When you see the yellow-eyed dude, the smartest thing to do is run."

Dean's eyes fell on the man's hand. There was an old gun in his grip. Dean knew at once what it was, and he knew he needed to get it away from him.

Bobby was clearly thinking along the same lines. "Drop the gun," he shouted, leveling his own.

With an almost lazy wave of his hand, the man swept Bobby, Ellen and Dean away from him. It felt to Dean as if invisible hands were pushing him. He hit a tombstone hard, and was momentarily stunned. His gun dropped out of his hand and he found he couldn't reach for it again. He was pinned in place. In his peripheral vision he could see that Ellen and Bobby were unarmed and struggling, too.

"Don't get up," the man said with a laugh. "I'll just be a minute."

He walked towards the small crypt with its ornate doors that looked incongruous amongst the simple tombstones. He examined the gun for a moment, as if appraising it, and the lifted it to a hole in the door.

"Stop!" Bobby shouted. "You don't want to do that!"

The man turned. "I don't have a choice. I never had a choice. This is the only way for me." He looked genuinely upset. "But a man's gotta do what he can for family. You understand that, don't you, Dean?"

He shoved the gun into the hole and twisted it once. A force pulsed, knocking him away from the door. It broke his concentration, and Dean found he could move. He grabbed at his gun and raised it. He fired off a shot at almost the same moment Ellen and Bobby did. The man jerked as the three bullets hit him, and he turned slowly to face them. His expression was stunned, and Dean could almost read the thought in his eyes—_Why would you do that?_—in the moment before he dropped dead on the ground.

The door of the crypt flew open and a force like a wind flew from it. Ellen and Bobby were already in motion, running to the doors and trying to shove them closed again, before Dean's thoughts had caught up to him. He ran forward, jumping Jake's body, and grabbed the gun and pulled it from the door. He added his weight to the door Ellen was at, trying to close it, but it was like pushing against a brick wall.

Then movement caught his eyes, and his heart failed. Sam was there.

"Hey, Dean."

"Sam?" he asked in a broken voice.

Sam's eyes flashed yellow and he shook his head. "Not right now."

* * *

Sam's shouts turned to desperate screams as he caught sight of Dean. Ellen and Bobby were there, too, but his attention was fixed on his brother. "Dean, run! Get away from here. He'll kill you." His lips remained still, curved into a satisfied smile.

"You bastard," Dean snarled. "Get out of him."

The Demon laughed. It was a harsh, jarring sound. "I will in time. Just not yet. There's a few things need to happen first."

Dean looked sickened.

"Please don't hurt him," Sam begged. "Leave him alone."

As if to spite Sam, the demon waved an airy hand and Dean was knocked off his feet and dragged forward. He came to rest against a tombstone, a trickle of blood slipping down his temple into his eyes and the colt dropping at his side.

Sam was angry, more than angry, he was incensed by the blood. It surged through him like an electric shock, empowering him. "No!" he shouted, but this time his lips did move and the voice was his own. He felt like he was being torn in two. Every part of him, the parts of him that the demon had taken for himself were coming back to him one by one, and the pain was agonizing. He cried out.

Dean was watching him, but there was no fear in his expression. He looked almost hopeful. "Sam?"

Sam nodded, and the movement was his own. He could feel Yellow-Eyes pummeling at him from within, every punch felt like a hammer blow, but Sam was in control. He had it trapped.

Dean got to his feet and walked forward like a man in a dream. Ellen and Bobby were watching him from their place by the almost closed doors. Sam didn't give them more than a second's attention before his eyes fell on the colt.

Dean followed his gaze and he gasped. "Sam, no!"

"It's still here," Sam said in a strangled voice. "It's in me, Dean."

He walked forward, reaching to pick up the gun, but Dean was faster. He picked it up and walked backwards, away from Sam. "I won't let you."

Sam felt the Demon struggling harder than ever. It knew what was coming. "You have no choice," Sam said. It was almost easy to wrest the gun from Dean's grip, despite the fact Dean was clinging to it with all his might. "I have to do this."

"No!" Dean moaned.

Sam stepped back, the colt in his hand. "I have to. Mom. Dad. Me. I owe it."

The Demon beat at him, fighting desperately to be free, but Sam knew he would succeed. He could feel it.

He turned the gun and pressed it against his chest. His eyes swept from Ellen's tears, Bobby's solemn acceptance, to Dean's devastation, and then he saw a fourth person there. John Winchester stood behind Dean, his eyes glassy. As Sam 's finger squeezed on the trigger, he nodded. Sam thought it looked like approval.

"Thank you," he said, speaking to them all at once.

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Sam's knees gave way just as Dean reached him.

"Sam!" He gasped, catching his back as Sam swayed. His head lolled back, exposing his throat and that awful scar. Dean pulled him against his chest and Sam's head fell forward onto Dean's shoulder. "Hey, hey, hey!" Dean shook him. "Hold on, okay. You'll be fine."

Sam didn't respond. Dean gripped his face and lifted him so he could look into his half closed eyes. "You're okay."

Still holding Sam's face in one hand, Dean put the other against him chest and felt for the wound. Warm blood coated his palm and a sickening hollow was beneath. Dean pulled his hand back, horrified. "Hey. You're okay, It's not even that bad," he lied. "Sammy? Sam!"

Sam's eyes closed and his head fell against Dean's hand heavily.

"I'm gonna take care of you," he promised. "I'm gonna take you care of you. I've got you."

"Dean," Ellen's soft voice said beside him, reminding him that she was there.

"I need Bobby," Dean said then shouted for his friend. "He's really hurt. Bobby, you have to help him. We need to get him to the hospital. He needs help!" He was babbling, but he couldn't stop. He needed someone to reassure him.

"I'm here," Bobby said beside him. "But… Dean… He's not hurt anymore."

"He is!" Dean snapped. "Look at him."

Ellen knelt beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was choked with tears. "He's gone, Dean. Sam's gone."

He wasn't. He couldn't be. Dean could feel his warmth against him. Sam couldn't be gone. He was still warm.

"Help me," he said through his tears. "Help him."

"I wish I could," she said in a tone steeped in misery. "He's gone, Dean. He's…" She sucked in a breath. "He's dead."

"No!" Dean bellowed. He couldn't be. "He's still warm! Sammy!"

"I'm so sorry," Ellen whispered.

Dean buried his face against Sam's shoulder and rocked him gently. "You're okay," he whispered. "I'll take care of you. I'm here, Sammy. I've got you."

Then he felt someone step up behind Sam, and without knowing why, not wanting to, he raised his head and looked into a face he thought he would never see again. "Dad?"

John Winchester smiled sadly and nodded.

"I tried, Dad, I swear," Dean moaned. "I'm so sorry."

His father looked down at Sam then and an expression of pain crossed his face, there was something else there though, something Dean had only seen a few times in his life. Pride. His heart was breaking, but he was proud.

Dean looked away and buried his face against Sam's shoulder again. One day, perhaps, he would understand how John felt. Maybe he'd be proud, too. But it wasn't that day. That day Dean could feel nothing but the agony of loss.

"I'm here, Sammy," he whispered to his brother. "I've got you."

* * *

**So… Come on, are you really surprised? This is one of **_**my **_**stories. Of course there's death.I know some of you will be unhappy/disappointed by this turn, and I'm sorry, but this is the story the way the story wanted to be written.  
**

**Only one chapter left now, so make sure you're there for it. **

**Until next time… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	23. Chapter 22

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for being the fandom's most fabulous beta. Thank you Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for being the best friends girl could ask for.**

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty-One**_

It was a dream–_it has to be a dream. _In the dream Sam was so still.

Dean sat on a chair beside the bed, unable to take his eyes off him. Part of him was sure that if he watched him long enough, he would see him move.

_Not moving. Can never move again. Because he's…_

Dean shook his head, refusing the thought its completion.

He waited for Sam to move because to accept the alternative was too much to handle.

They had moved Sam to an abandoned cabin outside the cemetery. Dean hadn't been able to bear staying in _that_ place, the place where Sam had—_died_—been hurt. It was dark and depressing there, not that the cabin was much better. It was dark and dank. Dean wished they were home, in his house—not that it had ever been Sam's home. He could lay Sam on _his_ bed. He could have made him comfortable. He could have laid blankets over him. He could have been home.

_Not home. Never his home. Sam never had a home. He never will now. Because he's…_

Dean shook his head again.

Ellen and Bobby were still there, talking quietly but agitatedly in the next room. If Dean had wanted to, he could have heard what they were saying, but he didn't. It wasn't their voices he wanted to hear.

_Can't talk. Will never talk again. Because he's…_

"Shut up!" Dean shouted.

"Dean, you okay, boy?" Bobby asked.

Dean didn't bother to answer. It was a stupid question.

Ellen came in and rested her hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. He understood Sam's aversion to touch now, as he felt it, too. It was as if their touch burned him, because it was the wrong touch. The wrong person. Had it been John's touch Sam longed for as Dean did Sam's now? He couldn't ask because Sam was—_dead—_unable to answer.

"We need to talk," Bobby started, sounding determined. "There are things we need to do… for Sam."

Dean turned agonized eyes on him. "What do we need to do?"

"We need to lay him to rest."

"No!"

"We have to," Ellen said softly, her voice choked as it had been on that old cemetery where Sam had—_died—_collapsed in Dean's arms. "We can't let him stay like this. He deserves better."

"A hunter's funeral," Bobby said. "It's what he would have wanted."

"Leave," Dean said quietly.

"What?"

"I said leave!" he bellowed. "Get out!"

"We can't do that," Ellen said, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks.

"Get out! Get out!"

"Dean, honey, I know this hurts, I _know _that, but we have to do this. We can't leave him here like this. It's not…"

"It's not right," Bobby said.

Dean leapt to his feet and stalked toward Bobby. "Not right? You want to burn him! _That's _not right. That's not what you do to a person."

"He's not—" Bobby started, but Dean cut him off with a punch to the jaw.

Bobby staggered back, looking stunned. Dean had never raised a hand to anyone in front of Bobby before, least of all him. But his words were unforgivable, unbearable, agonizing.

They were forcing Dean to accept what his mind had rebelled against since he had touched that—_gaping_—hollow in Sam's chest. He'd known Sam couldn't survive a wound like that. He'd known it would take his life. He had taken his own life for the mission, the dammed demon.

_He killed himself. Sammy's dead. _

"Please, leave," he said in a broken voice. "Let me be alone with my brother. Leave us alone."

Bobby nodded, the red mark standing out on his cheek like an accusation. "Okay. Okay, Dean. Call us when you're ready for us to… We'll be at my place."

Dean would never be ready for that. He couldn't watch his brother go up in flames. He couldn't let the fire lick at his flesh, taking away all of him. He didn't care that it was a hunter's end, that it was what Sam would have wanted. "_This is how it ends for every hunter in the end. We go down in flames."_ He couldn't let Sam go in the flames. He just couldn't.

Bobby strode from the room but Ellen lingered for a moment. She glanced at Dean then walked towards the bed. Dean didn't want her near Sam, he didn't want her to touch him, but he knew in his heart Sam belonged to her, too.

Her shaking hand pressed to her mouth and she kissed her palm then laid it on Sam's cheek. "Goodbye, honey," she whispered and then turned and left the room.

_Goodbye…_ How could she bear to say it? Dean couldn't. He would never be ready to say that to Sam.

The pain of thinking he had died with John was nothing compared to this. That had been an ache in comparison to this agony. Sam had been a memory to him, the little brother whose voice he had almost forgotten. He had been a phantom. Then Dean had found him again, and it had all become real. He had a new voice to memorize and a new face—the voice and face of a man. He had created a new set of memories of his brother, and now… now that was over. There would be no new memories. They wouldn't have a beer in the Roadhouse. They wouldn't watch a game together. They wouldn't do any of the things Dean had discovered meant so much more when shared with his brother.

He could have none of that ever again.

"How am I going to live with that?" he asked the quiet room. "How can I go on knowing none of that will happen again?" He looked down at Sam. "Sammy, what do I do? I don't know what to do." His voice broke and he swiped away the tears that slid down his cheeks. "Tell me what to do. Please tell me."

A memory of John came to him. It had been after Dean's first hunt. John had let him come along for a werewolf. It had been his own fault, John was blameless, but he had taken a swipe of werewolf's claws to the arm. It hadn't been deep, but it had burned with pain. John had shot the werewolf and supported Dean on his way back to the car. Dean had sat sideways in the shotgun seat, his feet planted on the dirt, and John had wrapped gauze around the wounds from the first aid kit. Dean had tried not to let the pain show, but it had been hard, and as John had pressed down to staunch the bleeding, Dean had hissed with pain.

"_Don't be ashamed to show it hurts,"_ John had said _"You have to set it free. Holding it in hurts even more, you understand, son?"_

It was one of the last things John said to him—Sonny had come soon afterwards—and Dean always thought it was one of the wisest, too.

As his mind repeated those words to him now, he realized for the first time that he had never truly embraced the advice. He'd tried, he'd spoke about how he felt to Sonny and Bobby, but he'd never set free the pain of losing Sam from his life. He'd felt it all but held it in, making the pain even worse.

As if the realization was permission, he began to cry openly. Gasping sobs broke from him and he let the tears fall. He staggered forward, his knees giving way as his legs bumped the side of the bed. His head fell forward to rest against the dirty mattress, inches from Sam's cold hand. He stayed there, so close to Sam but so far at the same time, sobbing his heart out and knowing John was right. It hurt more to hold it inside, but it was still agonizing to feel as he let it out.

Eventually, his sobs tapered away and his eyes dried. He stood and moved back to the chair beside. pulled it closer and picked up Sam's—cold, so cold—hand. He clasped it between both of his own, and began to speak.

"Sammy, I'm sorry. I never should have let this happen. I should have stopped you. I _could_ have stopped you if I'd just been a little stronger, a little faster. If I'd never left the life, I would have been able to do it. I let myself waste what I had. All that knowledge, all that training, and I took it to college." He scoffed. "Why did I care? I didn't need Dad to show me, I already knew. I should have stayed a hunter, not given away what mattered to a bunch of kids I didn't even know. The only kid that mattered was you, and I let you down. I was supposed to take care of you. You should never have been forced into that position. It was supposed to be me. I'm the oldest."

_Was the oldest. You're not anymore. You're all alone. No parents. No brother. No one left to love. _

"I'm alone," he whispered. "I'm all alone."

He turned Sam's hand over and ran a hand over his palm. There was a deep scar there that Dean had never noticed before. There were scars on his knuckles and arms and that damned scar on his neck that had almost killed him. _Would_ have killed him without John's sacrifice.

A rumble broke into his thoughts and he released Sam's hand. He moved to the window and saw Bobby climbing out of the Impala and getting into his Chevelle with Ellen at the wheel. They'd brought it back to him from where they'd left it at the cemetery. That last piece of Sam. He wasn't sure if he was grateful or not. He never wanted to drive it again, it belonged to Sam and John and he thought their memories would haunt it always, but at the same time it was right that it was close to Sam. Despite what Sam had said, it wasn't just a car; it was Sam's home. With its scent of gun oil and leather and trunk loaded with every weapon they could ever need. Everything…

Dean's heart jumped in his chest.

There was everything in that trunk. _Everything_ he needed. He just needed the courage to do it.

He looked at Sam's face—_so still, so cold_—and he felt something surge through him.

He could do this. He could do this last thing for his brother. He would do it regardless of the cost, because Sam needed him to. He would save him.

* * *

She could have been waiting for him she came so fast. Dean had barely stamped down the dirt over the box when she arrived, her long black hair flowing down her back and her red lips curved into a smile.

"Oh look," she said. "A Winchester. Always a pleasure."

"You know what I need," Dean said curtly. "Will you deal?"

"That's it?" She raised an eyebrow. "No foreplay? Straight to the deal? You must be desperate."

"My brother is dead."

"Not bad," she said, looking him up and down. "I'd enjoy the kiss at least."

Dean had come there determined not to plead, to keep his Winchester pride, but in the face of it he realized there was no need for pride when he was the last Winchester left. This was bigger than anything his father had taught him or even valued. This was Sam.

"Please," he said. "Please help me."

She looked almost sympathetic as she shook her head. "I don't think you realize how bad Sam screwed up. He killed Yellow-Eyes himself. Do you have any idea what the shockwave from that was in the pit?" She laughed. "Of course you don't. You're no hunter. You're barely a Winchester now."

"I'm Winchester enough to do this," Dean said.

"Winchester enough to sacrifice yourself for family.? Yes. I supposed you are. Doesn't mean I'll deal though."

Dean pulled the colt from the back of his pants and pointed it at her. "How about now? Will you deal now?"

She flinched back satisfyingly. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I? Like you said, I'm desperate. There's nothing I wouldn't do now."

"No one will ever answer your summons if you kill me," she said scathingly. "Sam will stay dead."

"Then I guess I'll have to motivate you," Dean said coldly, lowering the gun to aim at her stomach. "I hear a gut shot hurts like a bitch for a human. Want to see what a bullet from _this_ gun feels like for you."

She looked almost scared. Dean was pleased. "What do you want?"

"I want my brother back. I want my ten years."

She scoffed. "Never going to happen. I make that deal with you, my boss will have my head."

"Your boss is dead."

"No, Yellow-Eyes is dead. He's not the only player in the pit. Try again, Dean."

"Nine years."

"No."

"Five." The pleading note was back in his voice.

She shook her head. "One. I will give you one year. Long enough for your brother to _really _feel it. Long enough for him to know what's coming but to accept he can do nothing to stop it. I think that's plenty of time."

Dean answered without hesitation. "Done."

She sauntered forwards. "Before we get to my favorite part, we need to nail down a few details. Consequences. If you try and welch or weasel your way out, then the deal is off. Sam drops dead. He's back to rotten meat in no time. So...? It's a better deal than your dad ever got. What do you say?"

"Done," Dean said again. He wouldn't let anyone, least of all Sam, try to break this deal. He wouldn't fail this time. He would save Sam and keep him safe.

She smiled and stepped forward into his space. Dean closed the gap between them and slammed their lips together. The kiss seemed to last forever before she pulled back panting.

"That was something else," she said breathlessly.

"Are we done?"

She nodded. "Sealed with a kiss."

Dean turned away for the car, and she called after him.

"See you in a year, Dean."

A year with Sam. It was worth it.

* * *

Sam jerked upright on the bed, breaths heaving and head swimming.

For a split second he thought he was in the cemetery again, fighting the demon within himself, then he realized it was only his tangled thoughts that were haunting him.

He looked around and saw he was in what looked like an old cabin. The mattress he was on was dusty and dirty and the plank walls were black with mold. He had no memory of coming to this place. He had no memory past the point of pointing the gun at himself. No. That was a lie. He had one more memory.

He remembered pulling the trigger.

He put his head in his hands and shouted into them. "No!"

He had been done. He had killed the demon. He had finished the mission that had shaped the path of his life. It should have ended there. Why couldn't it have ended there? Who had done it? Who had been_ stupid_ enough to think that was a solution?

And yet he knew the answer. Who else? Who but a Winchester would be deluded enough to think Sam was worth it?

The cabin door banged open and Dean rushed in. His face was pale, but as he caught sight of Sam it flushed with color and a look of exquisite relief settled across it. "Thank God," he breathed.

Sam swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and stood. He was shaking, whether from anger or sadness he didn't know.

"How do you feel?" Dean asked. "Does it hurt? You were damn lucky you missed the heart. Bobby fixed you right up. You're going to be fine now. Sam?"

"Don't lie to me, please," Sam said.

Dean looked guilty, an almost childlike expression. "I don't know what you mean."

Sam was in motion before he realized what he was doing. He had Dean by the collar, shoved against the wall. "What do you think's going to happen, Dean?" he asked in a growl. "You think I won't notice when your deal comes due?"

"I… Sam…"

Sam shook him slightly. "Why would you do this? What were you thinking?"

Anger came to Dean's defense. "I did what I had to do! After what you did to yourself, I had no choice. What was I thinking? I was thinking that you're my brother, and I couldn't let you be dead. I couldn't let that happen."

"It was over," Sam said in a choked voice. "I was done."

"_I_ wasn't," Dean growled. "I wasn't done. You did… _that._ You died, leaving me all alone. How was I supposed to live like that?"

"How am I supposed to live _now_?" Sam asked, almost begged for the answer. He released Dean and stepped back. "What made you think I was worth it? Why did you and Dad do this to me?"

"We did it _for_ you, Sam, not to you," Dean said sadly. "We did it because you're family and we couldn't live in a world in which you didn't. Don't you understand? Wouldn't you have done the same thing for us?"

Sam bowed his head, ashamed of the tears that were pooling in his eyes.

Dean put an arm on the back of his neck and pulled him against him. It was the last straw for Sam. He couldn't hold any of it in anymore. He began to weep. Dean didn't shush him. He didn't say anything. He just held him and let him cry.

When the tears stopped, Sam pulled back. He wiped at his face and sniffed, pushing away the pain and locking it away in his mind to be revisited later.

"Okay," he said. "How long did you get?"

"A year," Dean admitted.

Sam sucked in a breath, shock overwhelming him for a moment before he pushed it down again. "I'll fix this," he said confidently. "I will save you. I swear it, Dean."

"I know."

"I mean it, Dean," Sam said. "You just watch me."

"I believe you. Don't worry. I'm not scared. I know you have my back." Dean smiled. "Just like I've got yours."

Sam nodded. He would do it. He would save his brother, because that was what you did for family.

* * *

**So… This is where it was supposed to end. I had a plan all set out to give you all closure for the story. I was done. That lasted around a month before I decided I had to continue. I couldn't leave it where I did, so I wrote the sequel. It is called **_**Brothers In Arms**_** and I'm working on getting it up for you all soon. In the meantime there's a short excerpt posted next.  
**

**Thank you all for joining me on this journey. It's been a helluva ride and a real challenge to write out of my comfort zone. I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. **

**Until the sequel… **

**Clowns or Midgets xxx **


	24. Brothers In Arms

**The sequel is not quite ready to post — I don't have a summary written and that's the absolute hardest part of any story for me. I'm working on it though. In the meantime, here's a short excerpt of the sequel. **

_**Brothers In Arms **_

'_Get Dean to Bobby's. Get Dean to Bobby's. He'll be safe at Bobby's.' _

The thoughts reverberated around Sam's mind, spurring him on. He needed Dean safe. He needed to get him somewhere he couldn't do another damn fool thing.

'_Like save your life'? _a voice whispered.

But that was not all he'd done. He'd saved Sam, brought him back, but it was at the cost of his own life, and that didn't do a thing that could be counted as good for Sam.

"_How was I supposed to live with that?" _Dean had asked. How was _Sam _supposed to live with what Dean had done? Even after he'd broken the deal and saved him—he _would_ save him—he had to live with the knowledge another of his family had made that sacrifice for him. What was Dean thinking believing Sam could ever be worth that? Sam would have to watch him continually now to make sure he didn't do anything else so damn stupid.

It didn't occur to Sam that what he was planning was equally as stupid as what Dean had done. For him, it was the only solution. He would save Dean from himself and then deal with the fallout when it was time.

"Sam," Dean said quietly from beside him.

Sam's hands tightened reflexively on the steering wheel. "Yes, Dean."

"Where are we going?"

"Bobby's," Sam said curtly.

"Oh. Okay. Makes sense I guess. Ellen and the others are there, too."

Ellen. Sam felt a pang of pain at the mention of her name. He desperately needed to see her and Jo. He couldn't though. There was something more important he needed to do.

They were in Sioux Falls before Dean spoke again. "How do you feel?"

Sam looked incredulous. "How'd you think?"

Dean grimaced. "I mean physically. You did take a bullet to the chest."

In truth, Sam ached. The broken ribs from Jake's attack and the gunshot wound were healed, but he still felt pain in his chest, as if there was a heavy weight there. If he wasn't himself, he would say it was heartache. His logical mind told him it was trauma, some internal injury from what had happened. The one comfort he had was that it wouldn't be there much longer.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, Dean," Sam said tiredly.

Dean heaved a sigh. Sam knew he was being difficult, but he couldn't help himself. There was too much that needed to be said, and he couldn't say a damn word of it. He didn't have it in him. He was too far gone.

Sam steered the car onto Bobby's property and through the junked cars to the house. He pulled to a stop and just sat for a moment without moving.

"It'll be okay, Sam," Dean said. "They need to see you."

That was probably true, but he couldn't see them. "I'll be in a minute," he said. "You prep them so Bobby doesn't try to take me down when he sees me." It was a believable story. Apparently good enough to fool Dean, as he opened the car door and climbed out.

"It'll be okay," Dean said again.

Sam nodded. "I know."

Dean closed the door and walked towards the house. Sam watched him go, just for a moment, and then changed gear. The wheels spun as he slammed a foot down and reversed. He yanked on the wheel, turning the car away from Dean, and rode off as fast as he could through the stacked cars. Through the rearview mirror he saw Dean running after him, but he didn't slow.

He thought he heard Dean shouting his name as he roared through the iron arch that marked the entrance to Bobby's yard. He felt a little bad about leaving this way, but he had more important things to worry about than hurting Dean's feelings. Soon he would hurt all of them a lot more.


End file.
